


Finwë Finds Out

by Findecutie, MayGlenn



Series: Russ and Finno Verse [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findecutie/pseuds/Findecutie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While visiting their grandfather’s palace in Tírion, Maedhros and Fingon are caught doing something they really shouldn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Ah, here we are," Finwë said, setting a lamp down on a bookshelf. "Geology and Geography of Aman. I don’t know that you’ll find a taller peak than the one you two discovered, but if you do, I suppose you can name it as well, if you like.” He smiled knowingly. “My grandsons the explorers! You know Indis and I are very proud, as are your parents.”

Maedhros bowed slightly, eyes flicking to the books on the shelves. “Thank you, grandfather,” he said. “These look amazing.” He pulled one off the shelf. “Finno, look. This one might tell us what those stars in the lake were!” He looked up to Finwë again. “Can we take them to the study to read them? Or would you prefer we read them here?”

Fingon bent over Maedhros’ shoulder to pour over the maps, easily as entranced with them as Maedhros was. Their grandfather smiled at them.

"You are welcome to take them to the study, though if you are planning on pouring over quite a few volumes it may be easier to work in here; this is my private library and you are not likely to be disturbed, should you stay."

"Oh," Maedhros said, as smoothly as if this had just occurred to him, "yes, good idea. All right. Perhaps we could move a…" he peered out from behind a bookshelf and went in search of a desk, returning almost immediately with a short table, about knee-high. "Haha, do you remember these, Finno?" he asked, waving it high before setting it down in the aisle and moving the lamp to it. "I remember all of you little ones each sat at one of these while Atar shouted about thorns and Turko’s appalling handwriting."

Fingon smiled in remembrance, though he avoided going into the topic of their linguistic education. He learned more from Fëanor than most of Fingolfin’s and Finarfin’s children, but he did not quite compare to his uncle’s bloodline. Maedhros saw little difference between Fingon’s speech and his own, but Fingon had to admit that his cousin was willfully blind where he was concerned.

There was a reason it was considered folly to battle with words against the Sons of Fëanor. Where the children of another Elf might throw balls, or in different circumstances, darts or knives or lock the blades of swords, the Sons of Fëanor played with words in their childhood and youth. They tossed them back and forth, turned them, twisted them to their own use. Under the guidance of their father- his teachings and his writings—they learned to hone their words and then their sentences, their writings and their speech, into the greatest supports or the greatest weapons. Meanings layered upon meanings in a single sentence, and each word they chose, as well as the order of the words and their closeness to one another was carefully plotted. And as with children who are raised throwing balls back and forth, such an action became second nature to them and was done almost without thought—or rather, the thought itself became action without hesitation and their words matched their thoughts more cleanly and precisely than was common even for the Loremasters of the Noldor in Valinor.

"I remember Kano studiously trying to ignore Turko who would give Curvo one of those Looks that told you neither of them were up to anything good." Fingon shook his head, as did Finwë.

"Well, I suppose I should leave you two to your work then. One moment," Finwë ducked through a small doorway and returned with clean sheets of paper and fresh ink bottles.

"Enjoy yourselves, and try not to forget about dinner in a few hours—Arafinwë is coming, and he’s bringing the children—and I know how invested you two can become in your studies. And your adventures." He smiled, and left silently. Fingon watched as he passed through the doorway, and though his back was straight before, something in his posture shifted and he transformed from their beloved grandfather to the Noldorin king.

Maedhros straightened his shoulders, understanding the implicit command here: where there were children, he was tasked to look after them. The House of Finwë never employed nannies or nursemaids in their staff, instead charging elder cousins and siblings to the task. At any rate, it was an occupation Maedhros had always enjoyed, and was anyway a welcome distraction from discussions of rule and politics, which, while Maedhros was good at these things, he did not enjoy them as much as looking after the Elflings. (He especially liked Finarfin’s children, as they were always well-behaved, and always wanted him to braid their light-colored hair, and he was always glad to oblige.)

However, these thoughts were almost immediately from his mind as soon as their grandfather left the library.

Fingon sprawled lazily in the closest chair, pulling the book to him and grabbing a clean sheet of parchment. He brushed the feathered tip across the side of his face lazily as he thought. “Have you studied with any of the cartographers, Nelyo? We should make new charts of the areas we visit. I can see these were done from the surrounding peaks, not in the actual valleys; the detail is missing.” He pointed to a line of ink in the book, tracing over it with his finger. “And this river has changed course since this was drawn—with the number of rockfalls where we were, any maps Grandfather has are likely outdated. Perhaps we could make a book of new ones for him?” He glanced over at Maedhros to gauge his response.

Maedhros smiled out of one side of his mouth. He suspected his cousin was being intentionally flirtatious with that feather, but he couldn’t be sure, so he made an effort to ignore it. Anyway, they couldn’t very well be caught snogging in Grandfather’s library! So he pulled the matching footrest up against the side of Fingon’s chair and peered at the books in his lap, setting another heavy tome on the armrest between them. “I think grandfather would love such a gift,” he said. “A text that includes updates as well as any new discoveries we make.” He blew off the dust on the book he had chosen: there was quite a cloud of it. “You’d think no one had explored Aman since Elves first arrived on these shores. Surely Oromë at least has been to these areas more recently,” he half-chided, really deploring the overly-comfortable nature of his People—except, of course, for his father. “The only cartographer I ever really studied under was father.” He peered at the opening leaves of the book: “Ah, we might ask this loremaster, though.”

"If Uncle deemed you proficient, I’ll trust in his judgment, if you would be willing to start the drawings and tutor me in the subject." Fingon grinned at Maedhros. "I suppose Oromë may fixate on areas the horses and hounds can easily get to—we can always ask Tyelkormo next time he and Irissë encroach on our private areas for… private time." Maedhros grimaced at him. "At least they daren’t do anything too questionable around you," Fingon noted without a hint of sympathy. "But we should ask if Oromë ever hunts there. At the least we are likely the first of the Eldar in the area—with the possible exception of your brother. And he hasn’t shown any interest in charting areas thus far—only in the wildlife of each region Oromë takes him to."

"Agreed," Maedhros said, preferring to skip over the comment about his younger brother and Aredhel and cataloguing it under Things I Never Want To Know. He picked up a fresh sheet of paper and a lead point stylus: "I will make a rough sketch first, and then we will become more careful with measurements," he explained, drawing wide, featureless lines, following the original drawing mostly, but deviating where he thought appropriate. "There, do you think the river banks more sharply to the east here? We’ll say rough scale an inch to a mile for now—" sticking his tongue out as he drew, "and what do you guess the Maitimoronti—" he blushed here, "lookout point’s altitude is? Ten thousand feet?"

"Three thousand from our base camp with the rest of the family… so perhaps—" Fingon closed his eyes, calculating the position of the sun as they crossed, and the time it moved over the range, "twelve thousand feet in total?" He chided himself mentally—he could do the math easily enough, but had never had an inordinate interesting in putting pen to paper outside of his lessons with Fëanáro’s children, and unlike his uncle, his father had not pushed him to study such a wide array of subjects. "Here, if you start on the map I can sketch some of the area. And perhaps write a bit about the lake we found?" He shook his head. "Or perhaps we shouldn’t commit that to writing just yet—I enjoying knowing that we alone share that place, those memories of the moment." He smiled at Maedhros, leaning towards him slightly as he imagined him once more aglow with bright sparks of light.

Maedhros bit his lip as he looked up, gazing fondly at his cousin. “Yes,” he agreed, brushing a strand of hair out of Findekáno’s face, tucking it behind his ear, his fingers linger half a second too long. “I would keep it a secret—” he shook himself: “At least until we find out what it is. Once we learn it is some mundane mating ritual for sea creatures, or a trick of light or phosphorescence, then we can tell everyone about the stars. Right now, I enjoy their magic.” Before he could say more, he picked up the pencil and returned to drawing, trying to visualize (he would never ever forget, of course) where the avalanche had occurred and how the lookout point had appeared after.

Fingon drew a rough sketch of the view from the pass they had climbed through, and another of the view from the beach. Then he found his thoughts and his hands straying, and the next sheet of paper, which started as a scene of the lake at night, soon showcased Maedhros rising from the water like some ancient spirit of light and beauty and vitality, wet hair pulled down behind him, and glowing with an ethereal light which was reflected on the surface of the water where hundreds of lights glowed in the eddies and ripples of the waves. He blushed, realizing what he had drawn, but when Maedhros next put up his pen to consider the map he was working on, he slid the parchment over. “For you,” he murmured.

Maedhros opened his mouth to snap as Fingon slid a piece of parchment in front of his pencil, marring his drawing as he pulled up short, but that was before he caught sight of the drawing: it was a figure—it was—it was him! His eyes flashed at Fingon’s, but he looked down again almost immediately, his face coloring. “Ah, Finno!” he cried, otherwise speechless. His mouth flapped a bit (there was no way he actually looked like one of the Valar coming up from the water, as Fingon had drawn him), before he decided he ought to come down on the side of discretion, and clapped a hand over the drawing. “What if someone sees? I thought we were meant to be working!” he hissed, but he could not quite keep the corners of his mouth from turning up, nor banish the flush from his cheeks.

Fingon shrugged, unapologetic. “I have two good sketches completed to show Grandfather where we’ve been, and I’ll work on several more. I wasn’t quite paying attention as I drew this one and it rather got away from me. But perhaps you would like your counterfeit? It is a perfect likeness of you from that night… and given that, I am tempted to keep it for myself though I have the image ingrained in my memory more concretely than it can be affixed to paper with ink.” He traced a thumb alone Maedhros’ cheek. “Why do you blush, cousin? The sketch is a true image of our journey, as much as the others are, but I feared you would not like anyone else to see it, and so gave it over to your keeping.”

Maedhros licked his lips, huffing unsteadily. Distant voices screamed of propriety and you’re in your grandfather’s house! but Fingon, as ever, drowned these out. “I, ah—” he said, kissing Fingon’s fingertips before he knew rightly what he was doing. “I do want to keep this,” he insisted, “less to keep it from prying eyes and more that I might ever be warmed by the knowledge that this is how you see me.” He put his hand over Fingon’s where his cousin cupped his cheek, staining Fingon’s hand with pencil dust. He huffed again, turning Fingon’s hand in his and kissing his palm. “Thank you,” he whispered.

"It is not only how I see you," Fingon corrected gently. "It is how all the world except for you would see you in that moment. I only wish you could see yourself as I do, as the rest of the world would. And you’re welcome." He waited for Maedhros to slide the paper into his personal notebook, then leaned over further, quickly brushing a chaste kiss against Maedhros’ lips. "I love you."

Maedhros chased the kiss, leaning forward as far as the arm of the chair allowed him to. “I love you,” he breathed. “You flatter me needlessly. You know I could want no one else. I would rather I looked craven and deformed, if only you still loved me, so I would not have to bother with anyone else,” a wry grin escaped now, and he surged forward, wrapping his hand around the back of Fingon’s neck to press him into a deeper kiss.

Fingon whimpered into the kiss, closing his eyes and allowing Maedhros to draw him in completely. Then he heard a small sound—the bottom hinge on the library door had not been oiled in a while, he remembered, and he and Maedhros flew apart, turning in unison towards the door, where Finwë stood frozen with a mug of tea in each hand. Their grandfather shook his head slightly and unfroze, moving forward as gracefully as ever, striding to the table, and setting down the drinks. “Hot tea for your—” he paused a moment, turning to them, “er, studies?”


	2. Chapter 2

"Grandfather!" Maedhros cried, slipping into Finwë’s formal name as he straightened, standing hurriedly as he tried not to upset papers and books. "We were, ah, just—I, um, I sort of—fell?" The pile of books in his arms were slipping from his grasp despite his (nervous, clumsy, Why oh why had he been so foolish?!) efforts.

Finwë huffed and set the tea down. “That is not what that looked like from here, Nelyafinwë,” he said, his voice stern but tinged with amusement (was he laughing at them?) as he set down the tea and turned to face his grandsons.

"It wasn’t, grandfather." Fingon’s voice was quiet, but steady. "Nor is Nelyafinwë at fault in this. He is mine, and I am his, as much as can be until I reach my majority. So we have sworn, and so we wait to so swear as is dictated by our people’s—your people’s—customs." He raised his eyes to meet Finwë’s gaze boldly, and his grandfather smiled.

"I—ah—wait, no!" Maedhros blurted out, stepping physically between Fingon and Finwë: "He’s—Findekáno is of course not responsible for—for any of this. Being under the age of majority, he cannot be blamed. I alone take responsibility for what has passed between us, for I alone turned him from what is right and natural, and I—" but Finwë was just staring at him, and Maedhros could do nothing but babble: "I submit myself to whatever punishment you deem fit, only do not blame Findekáno, and please do not tell Nolofinwë." Panic struck him that Finwë might simply tell them never to see each other again, and how horrible that would be and how could he have been so careless? As if on cue, he lost his grip on the pile of papers and notebooks, and his personal journal slid open, and Fingon’s drawing of him slid to Finwë’s feet.

Before Fingon could raise a protest, Finwë began to laugh. The sound was rich and full, resonating in the sealed chamber. “I would punish you, Nelyafinwë—” he raised a hand to stall Fingon’s objection, “if ever I thought you would harm Findekáno. But you would not, and you could not, and I find myself confused as to why you think a betrothal is cause for fear and blame and punishment. Unless, of course, you mean only to use my grandchild’s flesh and leave him once you have sated yourself?” He raised an eyebrow in query, though the words still held a current of amusement, rather than anger or serious concern over Maedhros’ intentions and Fingon’s virtue.

Maedhros’ mouth flapped: “Grandfather!” he squeaked. “No!” He was beginning to feel light-headed.

Finwë continued to chuckle, perhaps the more so at his reaction. “Well, then. The only punishment you need fear is for your attempt to deceive me—and twice again for botching it so thoroughly. You must work on your lying if you want to be a better diplomat, Nelyo.” He held up his hand, silencing Maedhros’ attempt at protest, and the room fell into an awkward silence. And now he bent at the waist and plucked the drawing up, eyeing his grandsons with a warm grin. “Findekáno, did you draw this just now?” he said, beckoning his younger grandson forward.

Fingon blushed heavily. “Yes. I apologize for using your parchment for such. I was working on sketches for you of our latest venture to a new valley. I wasn’t really paying attention to that one and it… it got away from me.” He quickly grabbed the other papers and offered them to Finwë. “We found a lake that glowed as though with fallen stars, and when we swam in it they clung us, and they glowed about Nelyo’s body and hair like raiment of pure light.” He smiled softly at the memory, subconsciously leaning a minuscule amount towards Maedhros.

Still Maedhros’ mouth flapped, his mind working (too slow) how to salvage the situation and only now catching up to the possibility that he didn’t need to.

Finwë smiled at Fingon, leaning down slightly so they were at the same height. “It is a beautiful drawing. You should ink it—it has already become smudged.” Quick as lightning, his hand shot forward and grabbed Maedhros’ left arm, turning his wrist up to see the smudge of pencil on his palm, and he found the matching stain on top of Fingon’s hand. “I think we can see where this is going, and I would appreciate it if you gave me a bit more credit than you have thus far, Nelyafinwë,”Finwë said, looking at Maedhros sternly. “Especially if you think I have not suspected this for some time.”

Maedhros felt faint, but then Finwë brought their hands together and pressed them between his. “And all the more so if you did not think I would give you my blessing—or did not trust me enough to even ask.”

Fingon closed his eyes for a moment, a solitary tear threatening to escape, as his grandfather offered more than he had dared to hope for. He locked gazes with Maedhros, ready to stop in a moment if this was not what he wanted as well. Better late then never, they might still ask their patriarch’s—their king’s—favor in this match. “Please, Grandfather, I have found the one Elda in all of Valinor whom I would be joined to unto the breaking of the world and beyond. I wear his ring—” he lifted the chain from under his shirt with his free hand, “and he wears mine. We ask your blessing and your favor for this union.”

Maedhros strove for speech, but found none. These were his words! Was not he meant to say them? Fingon wasn’t even—And why couldn’t he—? His mouth flapped, entirely dumbstruck and unable to move. “Please,” he finally managed.

Finwë squeezed their joined hands, and reached out to draw them both into a brief embrace. Then he stood back slightly. “Without hesitation and with great pleasure I grant it. May this be the act to bring the families of my two eldest together. And may this be a bonding filled with all of the joy and happiness that Aman can offer for my beloved grandchildren.” He truly smiled then, and his eyes danced in mirth and pleasure.

"Grandfather—" Maedhros finally gasped, as if a flood had burst and allowed him air and words and thought and feeling and his knees trembled: he clutched Fingon’s hand like a lifeline. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you, I—I—”

Finwë laughed again, and guided them backwards. Maedhros nearly stumbled. “I think Russandol needs to sit down,” he teased, lowering Maedhros to the chair and placing Fingon beside him. “It is good you are together,” he said, upon straightening and looking at them where they were still clutching each others’ hands. “I occasionally give up hope of reconciling Curufinwë and the sons of Indis.” He pinched Fingon’s chin between his thumb and forefinger: he had his wife’s high cheekbones and jawline—but in Maedhros he saw the line of Miriel’s brow, and his heart ached. “You two give me hope,” he said: “Unorthodox, perhaps, but the elves are yet young, Aman is yet in its noontide—there is a first for everything.” He kissed each of his grandsons’ brows in turn before holding them out to arms’ length. “But you were right to wait, as I gather you have, for formal bonding, until Findekáno is of age. I am very proud of you both.”

Fingon felt himself flush again, and saw Maedhros do the same—truly only their grandfather could bring out such reactions with such ease. “Thank you, thank you!” Fingon squeezed Maedhros’ hand, then let go and threw himself into his grandfather’s arms, sinking into his warm embrace. “Thank you.” Fingon clung to him for a long moment, still trying to comprehend what this meant for them, and especially for Maedhros. They now had the explicit approval of the king of the Noldor backing their betrothal. His ring sat outside his tunic proudly, and before Finwë he need not hide it nor fear discovery. As he sat back down his hand came up to trail along the edge of the ring. He grinned at Maedhros. “Russ—isn’t this amazing? Perfect?” He nudged his ankle gently with his closest foot.

Maedhros was torn between wanting to laugh, cry, not believe what he was hearing and cling to it like the only possible truth he could ever hope to hear. “Finno!” he cried, wrapping his arms around Fingon’s waist and pulling him into his lap, laughing now, but crying also, and he hid himself in Fingon’s chest. When he felt he could stand, he lurched upright, setting Fingon aside and—a hug did not begin to cover this—so he knelt at his grandfather’s feet, taking his hands and kissing them. “Thank you,” he said, and now he was crying. “Thank you, I—what can I do to repay you?”

Finwë pulled Maedhros to his feet and embraced him, since his eldest grandson was determined to be awkward about this. “Nelyo, you are repaying me by giving this family a unity I could never hope to give them. Thank you,” he said.

Maedhros could not reply, but buried his face in Finwë’s shoulder, choked with emotion.

Fingon watched his lover and grandfather, and he finished putting their papers and books back into some semblance of order. A childish part of him wished they could stay here forever, rather than face the rest of the world. But their cousins and uncle would be arriving soon, and besides, if they stayed in this room they would miss out on so many adventures. He traced his fingers over the map Maedhros had been drawing. And they would have to get back to the lake and the stars and the night sky. Their own Cuiviénen, as it were.

Now Maedhros turned to Fingon, taking his hand and pulling him into a rough, clinging hug (he couldn’t kiss him yet, not like he wanted to, not in front of grandfather). “Oh, Finno,” he whispered, and Finwë sighed and smiled at them.

"Now, do finish your tea and get back to—" he chuckled, "well, anyway I’ll leave you. Make sure you are ready for dinner and downstairs in an hour."

"We will be, Grandfather. Thank you." Maedhros was beaming from ear to ear, his arm still tight around Fingon, as Finwë, still chuckling to himself, again left the library.

Fingon squirmed under Maedhros’ arms until he could press himself up to brush his lips against the side of Maedhros’ jaw. He beamed at him. “I love you,” he whispered. “And you’re rather perfect, did you know that?” He pressed another kiss to Maedhros’ opposing cheek. “And I will be yours past the reforging of Arda if you will have me.” Maedhros leaned down to meet him and they kissed chastely but passionately, clinging to one another as the adrenaline rush slowly left them, swaying slightly in the center of the library while dust danced in the light beams around them.


	3. Chapter 3

"Thank you for supper,atar," Finarfin said as servants cleared away dessert plates. Fingonfinished the last bites of pie on Maedhros’ plate just before it disappeared: Maedhros had pushed his chair back slightly and was rocking a sleepy and lightly fussing Galadriel in his arms. Aegnor and Angrod had fallen asleep in their chairs. Finrod was trying not to appear tired.

"You travelled a long way, it was the least I could do," Finwë replied. "Findaráto, are you tired?" he asked, and Finrod jerked his head up.

"No! I want to stay up and play with Nelyo and Finno!"

"I think it is time for bed for all of us," Finarfin corrected, and Finrod quieted obediently. Everyone else stood as Finarfin did.

"Oh! Silly me," Finwë said suddenly. "I forgot I am having the east bedroom redone—no matter. We’ll put the children in the sunroom, and Arafinwë you’ll be in the next room. Maitimo and Findekáno don’t mind sharing a room, do they?"

"Of course not Grandfather; thank you for having us." Fingon turned to Finrod and gave him a wink. "Perhaps tomorrow morning you can share in an adventure with us? There used to be an amazing clearing across the stream and further back in the woods, where the most colorful flowers would grow—would you help Maitimo and I try to rediscover it?" Finrod nodded, eyes wide, and Fingon felt Maedhros squeeze his knee under the table.

Fingon looked back to Finwë as he considered tomorrow’s plans. “Will you be using the library tomorrow, or might Maitimo and I try to get a bit more work done?” Finwë managed to give them a look that made Fingon fight a blush—he dared not look at Maedhros at that moment. And Finwë managed it without any of his youngest son’s family noticing a thing. Fingon was filled with a great sense of awe at that moment, and Maedhros, as though realizing exactly what he was thinking, knocked his hand against Fingon’s leg to break that line of thought.

"You are welcome to use the library as you need. I’m afraid I’ll be tending to matters in other parts of the house for most of the day."

"Thank you, Grandfather," Maedhros squeaked, coughed, took a swallow of wine before rocking Galadriel the last few steps to sleep. "I think she’s—she’s just about asleep—" he added quietly, needing to change the subject. "Findaráto, you want to help me put your sister to bed?" he asked, and as Finrod nodded and stood helpfully, Maedhros nodded to the assembly. "Good night," he said to his family, and, "love you," he added, because he was feeling warm and because he never got to say such things to this side of the family in front of his father. Finrod led the way down the hall to the room he would share with his sister, and Fingon, after saying his own goodbyes, followed, the two talking animatedly, if in whispers, about where they would go tomorrow.

Fingon’s face was lit with mirth when they finally exited Finrod’s room. Their cousin had been incredibly excited to be included in their plans, and he could only hope that he would sleep fitfully after this last burst of energy. He nudged Maedhros’ shoulder with his own. “I think I rather like him… can we keep him?”

Maedhros smirked. “Findaráto? Absolutely. I wish my brothers were half as polite as he—” he tweaked Fingon’s nose since he couldn’t risk kissing it, “I wish you were half as polite as he,” he chuckled, just as Finwë appeared, and as one the boys stopped tittering and came to attention.

Finwë raised his eyebrows. “At ease, men,” he teased, and then, “I would ask you up to my room where we might talk before you retire?” he whispered, motioning toward the stairs with a sweep of his hand.

Fingon and Maedhros nodded, and followed after Finwë as he led them down another hall and into his private chambers. There was a sofa which they took, and facing chairs, with a low table between them. Finwë disappeared for a moment and returned with a bottle and three glasses. “We still haven’t properly celebrated your betrothal. So I would like to be the first—am I the first?—to propose a toast in honor of your lives, your life together, and the many blessings Iluvatar has bestowed upon our family.”

Maedhros gaped again, but a smile formed quicker this time: “Grandfather, you shouldn’t have!” He had to bite the side of his lip to keep from giggling outright as he eyed Fingon sidelong.

"Nelyo—would you open it?" Finwë asked, handing the bottle and a towel to him.

Maedhros took the bottle wordlessly and wrestled with the pressurized top, pulling slowly so the bubbly wine would not foam all over them.

“Technically Irissë was the first to toast us, although she toasted us with champagne I had provided hoping that Russandol would find his ring acceptable, and be pleased with it. You are the first to suggest a celebratory drink, however, Grandfather.” Fingon would not hide that they had previously been toasted, though he was sure to add the consoling additional comment. And while he and Maedhros had been blessed by the acceptance of Aredhel and the Fëanorian siblings, there was a difference between their younger siblings’ acceptance of their relationship and their grandfather’s acceptance.

"All of my brothers know," Maedhros said sadly. "Well, except the little ones. And I think Curufinwë guesses. It’s just a matter of time until Turko tells him." He shook his head, grimacing as the cork came free of the bottle. "I’m sorry we did not tell you sooner, Grandfather," he apologized.

Finwë opened his mouth to respond, and then paused. “Nelyo… I am not upset, but how long have you been together, and for how long have you been betrothed?”

"Three months and twelve days," Maedhros said. He had noted the day precisely. "Was when Fingon gave this to me—" he held up the chain with his ring hanging from it. It had come apart without a finger to hold it together, however and, "Oh, it’s a puzzle ring. I could show you—" he unclasped it and began to work it together. "But we first spoke of our feelings at Midsummer, five months and, ah, twenty days ago. Promised to promise, I suppose." He hoped his encyclopedic memory of the days did not unnerve either of them, but he kept his eyes down shyly and focused on the ring just in case.

“That is how long we have been together,” Fingon agreed with a smile, touched that Maedhros immediately remembered to the day. “Of course, that does nothing to describe the length of time I have loved you.” His eyes watched Maedhros fondly as he spun the various threads of his ring. “For me there has never been anyone else. There could never be anyone else. I think I’ve loved you since I first saw you—and my first memory is of you reaching out to hold me and of being safe and at peace in your arms.”

"For my part, I could not fathom love until Findekáno was born," Maedhros said, clicking his ring into place and nervously sliding it onto his finger so it would keep its shape as he showed it to his Grandfather.

Finwë smiled, his own eyes misting as he looked on his two grandsons and considered how proud he was of both of them. He laid a hand on each of their shoulders, saying nothing for a long moment.

Fingon reached back and unclasped his ring, sliding it onto his finger as well. He let out a soft sigh—it felt right on his hand. And he loathed the thought that he would have to take it off again shortly. He caressed it with his thumb as he looked between Maedhros and Finwë.

They each took a glass, and Finwë raised his in a toast. “To new beginnings, and old friendships, to fellowship and friendship and every kind of love. May your lives be fruitful, your blessings bountiful, and your days filled with perfect happiness. Findekáno, I could wish for no better partner for you, no neri or nessi more worthy to care for my valiant young grandson. Maitimo, take care of him for me. And know that I can imagine no one more perfect for you than your shadow of ages, the one Elda guaranteed to get you out into the sun and away from working from time to time, and who cares about you as much as you care about everyone else in this family. Findekáno—don’t stop taking care of him, and don’t let this one go. There is no one in Valinor that I would trust more with my first grandchild. To both of you, to your future bonding, and to our family.” He raised his glass higher, and they returned the gesture, and drank.

Maedhros swallowed hard to keep the almost-tears at bay, as his grandfather spoke the most beautiful words. He committed them to memory, took this as a solemn oath, and only after he drank most of his glass managed a shy “Thank you,” while his head spun. He squeezed Fingon’s hand and grinned at him, full of joy.

Finwë smiled at both of them. “Now that the formalities are out of the way… would you mind if I had a closer look at your betrothal rings?” Fingon, smile stretching from ear to ear, immediately thrust his hand forward.

“It’s perfect, Grandfather. Russ made it of a coin I gave him years ago—and I’ve never seen more elegant craftsmanship. It feels… like a part of my hand. A part I had been missing all my life.”

"It’s embarrassing compared to this," Maedhros said, as Finwë took his hand in turn. "It’s got both our houses’ colors, too. Findekáno is a skilled craftsman." He grinned. "At least my father might approve of my choice, if we could ever tell him.”

Fingon shook his head. “He would see any number of flaws. I’m sure you’ve seen several, and I know Turko has. You’ve already stated that my ring met with Fëanáro’s approval, for all that he did not know its purpose—it is I who have won the heart of a master craftsman of the Noldor.”

Maedhros flushed. “You mustn’t tease me in front of Grandfather!” he admonished, at least half-joking.

"They are both beautiful pieces, worthy of First Princes of the Noldor," Finwë said, "and I am not just saying that because I am your grandfather. Now," he said, and stood, with an air of finality. "You make take the bottle back to your room, if you like. But I’ll just stress again how serious I am about your full bonding occurring in the future, after Findekáno is of age,” he glared sternly, and though Maedhros guessed their grandfather was still teasing him, he blushed appropriately and nodded fearfully.

Finwë then turned to Fingon, eyes lit as he took in two of his favorite grandchildren. “Of course, in my experience I’ve found that there are a great many activities that do not actually complete a formal bonding, but are in many ways just as fun.” Fingon choked on a laugh while Maedhros looked desperate to sink into the floor.

"Thank you, Grandfather! And goodnight!" Fingon grabbed Maedhros’ hand as they left, tugging lightly at his cousin who appeared to be in a state of shock.

"Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do," Finwë called after them, and if Maedhros were anyone other than Fingon’s perfect, incredible, strong, elegant cousin, Fingon would have sworn he stumbled.

Maedhros remembered nothing until he found himself in his room—their room—for the night, desperately clutching Fingon’s hand with his left, while the fingers on his right hand curled around the bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I—what just happened?” he blinked, gaped, and before he was able to even begin comprehending the answer, Fingon had his head on his shoulder and was invading his personal space and—“No. Wait,” he said sternly, backpedalling. “We need to think about this.”

Fingon paused momentarily. “You want to think about this, now?” He blinked at Maedhros. “You do realize that our grandfather and king just gave us his approval and then permission to do anything short of a true physical joining tonight? And now you want to take a step back?”

Maedhros winced. “You know what? Yes. Because first of all, we’re in our grandfather’s house, and second, there are children in the next room!”

“But Russ, Grandfather said we—“

“And third, we do not mention Grandfather in the context of—us—any of—in the bedroom—it’s just gross!” He waved his arms wildly, a bit of bubbly wine spilling out onto the carpet.

Fingon carefully grabbed the bottle from him, and proceeded to drink several large gulps directly from the bottle before setting it aside. “Our host has practically told us to get up to something tonight. The children are asleep, and will not hear us through the walls—if you are concerned we’ll just have to be very quiet.” Maedhros looked ready to argue. “And—” Fingon paused, took one more drink of the champagne, and looked at the wall behind his cousin, opting not to meet his eyes. “I’m feeling rather hurt. Every event conspires to bring us together and you hesitate. Not to put too fine a point on it, melda Maitimo, my beautiful betrothed, but if you were Tyelkormo and I Irissë at this moment, one of us would already be riding the other like the world was about to end.”

Maedhros spluttered. There were so many things wrong with this entire speech that it would be better to just start again from the top. Maedhros tried pinching the bridge of his nose, but it didn’t help, and only gave Fingon the opportunity to gulp more of the wine like it was cheap beer. With a weary sigh, Maedhros plucked the bottle from his heathen cousin and set it down on the bedside table. He held up his hand for silence, as Fingon looked about to protest, and took a moment to compose himself. “All right,” he finally said, staring at the lamp in the wall above the bed. He set the glasses down, too, and poured himself a full glass and took a fortifying swig, and, “All right,” he said again, and fixed Fingon with a stern but hungry look. “Get on the bed, then.” Before his cousin could move, however, Maedhros grasped him by the chin. “Get ready for bed, and disrobe. And wait for me.”


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as Maedhros let go of his chin, Fingon moved. He doubted he had ever prepared for bed so quickly, but with as much speed as he could muster he found his things put away for the evening while he lay naked on their bed, already consumed by thoughts of what was to come and this new, assertive side that Maedhros was showing. A side that Fingon had known existed but had not yet been exposed to. And as he lay back, arms tucked behind his head as he waited for his cousin, he yearned to see more of it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, not making any attempt to quell his body’s reaction to his thoughts. “Russ, are you coming?” he called softly.

Maedhros snorted. “I’ll just ignore your graceless choice of vocabulary, there,” he commented, grinning. His hands shook faintly, but he felt a bit safer about this now that Fingon was, well, over there, and not trying to—destroy what very little resolve he had in these matters. Also, yes, all right, he admitted it, he felt better being in control. That wasn’t wrong, was it? Anyway, Grandfather had said—

And there he went, breaking his own rule. But this was all right. This was allowed. He drank a little more wine before setting the glass down and proceeding slowly, deliberately, to prepare for bed, while Fingon waited.

Fingon grinned at the comment. It was, and then it wasn’t. He couldn’t play with words the way his cousins could, but when an opportunity struck… He heard Maedhros moving about the room, but opted to leave his eyes shut, enjoying the anticipation as he waited for his lover to come to him. He sighed, letting his legs fall further apart, and relishing the slight play of the breeze through the open window across his body.

Maedhros bit his lip as he finally stood at the foot of the bed, observing his Fingon where he lay. “Now listen well, Findekáno,” he began thoughtfully, turning his attention elsewhere before he could become too distracted himself. “Are you listening?”

Fingon nodded, minutely.

"If I am hesitant, it is only for the great love and respect I bear for you. Do not think for one instant that I would do anything to risk damaging the sanctity of our love. When I hesitate, it is not for lack of love, but an overabundance of it. Do you understand that, Findekáno?"

Fingon nodded, carefully keeping his face blank. This was decidedly not what he had been intending. And it went against the hunger he had read in Maedhros’ face a few minutes ago. He focused on the thought that Maedhros was not going to like the payback he would receive for this rudeness; Fingon was well aware of what his cousin was saying, just as he was well aware of the poorness of the timing. And while he was not usually one to engage in prank wars or games of oneupmanship, surely he could find something suitable to do to his betrothed in response.

"Good." Slowly, carefully, and deliberately, Maedhros crawled up Fingon’s body until he lay over the top of him. He was himself dressed in soft sleeping clothes, and he covered Fingon as much for warmth as for contact. "Now, hush, remember," he said gently, breath warm on Fingon’s cheek, and kissed him. "I want neither word nor sound from you, lest we wake the others. Can you do that for me, Finno?" he continued, growing bolder, raining kisses across his face and neck, well aware that he was teasing now.

Fingon opened his eyes and nodded silently, moving his arms to lay them at his sides and letting Maedhros do with him as he would.

Maedhros entwined their fingers, drawing them up and over Fingon’s head, and kissed him again, more roughly, more demanding. “I love you,” he breathed, pulling back teething at Fingon’s lower lip. He rocked their hips together, drawing a gasp from them both.

Fingon arched into him, raising them both off the bed slightly. As Maedhros moved his mouth, Fingon turned in to him, catching the lowest part of his neck in his teeth and worrying the flesh, sucking at it before lathing the area gently. He brought a leg up, sliding it along Maedhros’ warm skin, until he could wrap it around his waist, helping to guide their movements as they slid against one another. He raked his nails along Maedhros’ back, and at his cousin’s soft sound his own mouth opened on silent words—praising or demanding or begging without sound.

“Shh, good, what a good boy you are,” Maedhros whispered, taking Fingon’s wrists gently but firmly and pinning them to the bed with one hand before grasping Fingon’s sex with the other. “If I tease you like this, will you stay quiet for me, I wonder?” he grinned wolfishly in the dim light of the room.

Fingon kicked Maedhros in the leg. He lay silently, upper body compliant with his lover’s guidance, though he scowled at the remark and his eyes promised vengeance when Maedhros was done with him.

With a low chuckle, Maedhros swung his leg over Fingon’s hips, using his (as yet) superior strength to pin Fingon’s legs together and sit back on his thighs. “You want to try that again?” he challenged, growling as he bit down on the lobe of Fingon’s ear and shifted his hand lower and squeezing.

Fingon whimpered, twitching in Maedhros’ grasp. He was losing the ability to coherently think, let alone remember why he was fighting any of this. This was… this was everything that Maedhros had not been since they had come together, except, perhaps for the smallest moment that night before they had stopped. His spine tingled and he felt the hair on his arms raise as he, for the moment, relaxed his body and opted to yield himself completely to Maedhros’ control. He blinked at Maedhros with fully dilated eyes, mouthing the word ‘please’ as they locked gazes.

As Fingon went still, Maedhros pulled back just enough to smile down at his lover. “Good, good,” he said, kissing Fingon on each cheek and on his brow, still holding him firmly in place. He was nervous about this next part, the plot hatching in the back of his mind, but hoped Fingon would find the scenario as dizzying as he apparently did. “Now,” he explained, and he licked across Fingon’s lips, his breath hot on Fingon’s cheek: “I’m going to let you go, and I’m going to lay back. I want you to pleasure me—however you wish. And I want you to wait to finish.” He eyed Fingon carefully, waiting to see how he would react to this before moving (but he could not drive the fantasy of his mind of Fingon, mad and helpless with desire, waiting on his word). “You should speak now,” he concluded, loosening his hold on Fingon slightly.

"Yes, yes," Fingon mumbled, tongue sweeping out to wet his suddenly dry lips. "Please, Russ, let me please you. Let me…" he shook his head, uncertain what he wanted to do and unable to find words, and looked at Maedhros pleadingly. He shivered in Maedhros’ grasp and under his weight, weighting for him to release him.

Maedhros sighed, smiled almost shakily, but stole another kiss before releasing Fingon and rolling to one side, pulling Fingon over the top of him in a display of strength meant as a reminder. “Keep quiet, remember,” he whispered, in all seriousness now, and he let his arms fall to either side. “And I shall try to do the same,” he added with a shy grin.

Fingon nodded, and allowed his legs to spread further, sinking down to sprawl across Maedhros’ body. He lowered his head, placing a line of kisses down his neck and paused to suck a bruise into the skin above his collar bone. When he felt Maedhros’ arch against him and bite back a noise he slid down him further, lathing and biting at his chest and his stomach. He felt his arousal twitch and jump against him, and raised himself slightly so that Maedhros’ had nothing to grind against. Fingon petted his side placatingly, and moved lower between his legs to leave a group of marks on his hipbones, Fingon’s braids brushing against the outside of Maehros’ hip and thigh as he worked.

"Ahh-hhaa, Finno," Maedhros gasped, one hand fisting the sheets below him, the other tugging at Fingon’s hair. "I’m supposed to be teasing you," he reminded his cousin, a little breathlessly (and he was not sure he entirely minded).

Fingon hummed against his upper thigh as he placed an open mouthed kiss, then sat back to view his work. Maedhros was golden in the dim glow of the lamps and sweating but still in complete control of himself. He shrugged in response to Maedhros’ statement before leaning over him, grabbing a pillow from the top of the bed. He leaned down again, this time gripping Maedhros’ thighs and urging him to spread his legs further and lift his hips, sliding the pillow underneath him as he did. Maedhros looked at him and Fingon smirked, placing a quick kiss against the inside of his hip before ducking down running his tongue in a broad stripe along his lover from the top of his cleft until he skated over his genitals and then skirting back to run his tongue along his entrance, gripping Maedhros’ hips tightly as he jerked in reaction.

Maedhros sucked in a breath, and, “Findekáno,” he breathed, and went still. They had permission to do this, he reminded himself, but it yet struck him as a forbidden thing to have Fingon like this, perhaps because he had always wanted him so badly. And then the thought of Fingon on hands and knees laving at him like this, what it must look like (for he could not see, even when he lifted his head), made him flush with desire.

"Russ?" Fingon’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Maedhros realized he had been holding his breath for some time. Gasping, and breathing normally again, he clutched behind his knees and pulled his legs up to his chest, and coughed.

"Get on with it, then," he said weakly, a poor attempt to regain control of the situation.

"Russ," Fingon breathed. He paused, taking in the sight before him and trying to cool his own desire so that he could concentrate on Maedhros. He did his best to take Maedhros apart by inches, returning now again and again to focus on his center while he refrained from so much as brushing against his straining arousal. And Maedhros’ held himself still under Fingon’s ministrations, barely moving though eventually a long, low moan was pulled from him. Fingon then guided him over onto his hands and knees, settling behind him. He leaned across the bed to grab a jar of oil from the nightstand, and could not help but wrap a hand around himself for one stroke, two, while he bit at Maedhros’ shoulder to keep silent. He settled himself over his cousin’s back, urging Maedhros’ legs together until his own arousal was wrapped in tight heat, trapped between his thighs, and finally he reached around to close his hand, still slick from the oil, around Maedhros.

"Beloved." He pressed himself against Maedhros’ slick back, as he rocked against him, leaning close to his ear to speak softly. "Nine years we must wait for this." He nipped at Maedhros’ ear, hand squeezing slightly as Maedhros moved beneath him and adding a half-twist to his next stroke. "I yearn to have you, to let you have me. To bury myself inside you in truth, not in some clever approximation." Fingon gasped as Maedhros’ flexed beneath him, breath hitching as he tried to continue. "Cousin, I wish to have you so deep in me that we both forget where one begins and the other ends. To have you spill yourself while buried in me and to mark me as yours and yours alone until the end of Arda and for all time beyond. Tenn’ Ambar-metta, NelyaFinwë Maitimo. Tye melin."

Inyetye-mela,” Maedhros hissed in reply, along with a lot of other incoherent babbling, though he bit down on a knuckle to keep quiet. He had had a plan, he thought, distantly, when this night had begun. He had had a plan to reduce Fingon to this position, to whisper sweet truths in his ear while he pleasured him into senselessness. He had sweet tortures planned, to make this last a long time—but now—now—

Not that he minded how things were going, here, the other way around. He hoped Fingon wasn’t still going by his previous demands (that game seemed silly now in place of this), wasn’t still expecting him to—wasn’t expecting anything from him, really, at this point. By the Vala, this was so good, this was perfect (this was Fingon), this was everything he wanted (well, not quite everything). “And so you will, so we will, even as you have me now, Findekáno, melda,” Maedhros had the presence of mind to vow, his accent slipping as much as his presence of mind. This was a position he did not quite expect to be in, even if it was not quite real (though more accurately, he simply had given no further thought to experimenting beyond what he expected of how things would proceed), but now he was here he decided he would have to re-think this entire scenario. “Ai, Finno,” he squeaked, closing his hand over Fingon’s, over his sex, holding himself up on one trembling elbow, and he flexed his legs to create a tighter channel. “Together,” he gasped, rocking forward and back, Fingon’s weight a reassuring presence behind him, “are you close? Together—”

"Ai, Russ, please, please—" Fingon was reduced to begging and gasping. At one point he had been determined to keep control of this encounter (of what Maedhros said he could), and he was not quite yet at the edge. He had thought to pull back, however much is body demanded otherwise, to keep within the bounds Maedhros had set. But now… now he found himself racing towards his own completion as he thrust into the increasingly tight heat that Maedhros offered. His left hand was braced on the bed next to Maedhros’, and he shifted his own hand to rest atop it and squeeze their hands together into the sheet with linked fingers. Maedhros was rocking back against him, thrust forwards into his hand and backwards to sheathe his own arousal, and he whimpered as Maedhros flexed his thighs, his hand squeezing on the border of too tightly around Maedhros and wringing the most incredible noises from him.

"So close," he moaned, lips brushing the rim of Maedhros’ ear. His hips stuttered as he tried to hold back, to make sure Maedhros was with him in this as in all things. "Please, Russ, together. Together. Can I? Can we?" And his voice dropped even lower, the barest movement of air passing from him to his lover. "Pleeease."

Maedhros huffed, Fingon’s desperation going to his head. “May I,” he said pedantically, and grinned. “And not so loud,” he reminded Fingon, deciding once again he liked very much how Fingon sounded when he begged and wanting to draw it out that much more.

Fingon let out a choked off laugh that ended in a quiet moan and squeezed his eyes shut as he brought his hips to a stuttering halt, panting harshly against the back of Maedhros’ neck. He let go of his hand and lifted himself slightly, bringing his hand up to rake his nails down Maedhros’ back. “May we, Russ?” He brushed a soft kiss between Maedhros’ shoulders, bringing other hand to a stop though he continued to hold him loosely. “Are you ready? Do you want this?”

"Yes. Now," Maedhros ground out, his body giving a few more stuttering thrusts before going rigid as he spent, feeling Fingon close behind.

Fingon bit into Maedhros’ shoulder, muffling himself as he rocked against Maedhros once, twice, before tensing against him, dropping to lie against Maedhros’ back. He slid slightly against Maedhros as their sweat covered skin touched and he continued to work Maedhros’ through his orgasm, hand gripping him until he trembled in overstimulation. “Russ. Melda Russ. Ah!” He twitched as Maedhros squeezed his legs around him, and finally he drew back, releasing Maedhros and sliding off him. Fingon dropped heavily onto the bed beside him, turning to gaze at his cousin adoringly.

Maedhros turned back to Fingon, panting, but eyes still wild and gleaming. He laid himself over the top of Fingon before he collapsed, and held his hand out to Fingon’s mouth where it was covered in his seed. “Lick it up, there’s a good Finno,” he said, smearing it across Fingon’s lips without waiting for a response.

Fingon looked at him curiously but obeyed. He lathed his hand, leaning up slightly to capture his fingers and taking them into his mouth. He moaned, tongue swiping over them and wrapping around them as he watched Maedhros watch him. He sank back against the pillow when Maedhros withdrew his hand, tongue darting out to clean his lips.

Maedhros hummed in satisfaction, kissing his temple and pulling Fingon into his arms to kiss his lips, tasting bitterness on his tongue and attracted by the filth of it. “I love you,” he whispered, touching their brows together. “And I want you to to spend again—for me—” He took Fingon’s sex in hand and squeezed, though he was yet oversensitive. “Can you do that, Findekáno? I want to know how quickly you will come for me.”

"Ai, Russ! OH!" Fingon twitched in his grasp, flinching at the overstimulation- but flinching into Maedhros, not away from him. It was too much, too soon. "Yes, Russ," he gasped. "Anything for you. Anything." If Maedhros wanted to turn him into a quivering mess then he would do his best to oblige. Even now, though he was sensitive enough that their contact burned, he wanted to feel Maedhros, to be with him, to be everything Maedhros needed or wanted him to be. And though he would deny it should anyone else try to make him say so, he wanted to be good for him. To be the only one Maedhros would need or want, and to be able to do anything Maedhros asked of him. He trembled at his thoughts as much as at Maedhros’ sure grip on him.

"Please, Russ," he whimpered. Maedhros looked as though he might move away, and Fingon caught his wrist, keeping his hand in place. "Want this; want you." He squeezed his eyes shut and his brows drew together as Maedhros began to move his hand, toes curling and uncurling- his body could not decide which way to move, or how to feel. "I want to be good for you," he whimpered, feeling his eyes grow slightly watery and repeating Maedhros’ own words from earlier that night. He turned his head to the side, tucking it against the pillow.

"Shhh, hush," Maedhros whispered, ghosting a kiss over Fingon’s brow. "You are good. You are mine. I love you.” He stroked Fingon still, now in earnest if more gently. “Look at me, melda,” he said, slotting his arm beneath Fingon’s head, cradling him carefully. “I love you and I only want you happy—I want you so happy you sleep like a baby and are sore in the morning.” He grinned, biting his lip, until he leaned down to bite Fingon’s instead.

Fingon groaned against him, beginning to rock into Maedhros’ grasp as desire began to rise in him once more. He shook against Maedhros. “Oh, Russ. My Russandol, I love you so. You are the best part of me.” He wrapped his arms around Maedhros, holding onto him as he yielded his body up, and gave himself over to the care of his lover, his cousin, his friend. “I want that,” he whispered, as though he were imparting some great secret. “I want to feel you tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I want your ring on me, and your marks on me—your bruises and scratches and kisses and bites. I want to remember what you’re doing to me this night every time I move.”

"Good," Maedhros said, pumping Fingon faster, feeling him harden beneath him, and, "you will," he promised him. He kissed him again, hungrily, rocking into Fingon. "I want to taste you," he decided suddenly, reclaiming the arm beneath Fingon’s head and laying his hand flat on Fingon’s chest, his thumb lying across his cousin’s throat as he slid down his body. "Lie still, now. Just feel me."

Fingon nodded dazedly. Everything was beginning to blur together in a wash of desire, love, admiration and need as Maedhros pushed his body further, faster than he had ever dared on his own. He bit his lip until he tasted blood when he felt Maedhros warm breath over his arousal, and he fisted the sheets at his sides, twisting and tangling them as he did his utmost best to lie still beneath Maedhros. “Ai. Ai, Haryon. As you say.”

"Easy, easy," Maedhros growled, pressing down warningly with his thumb as he caught sight of the blood. "Don’t bite. I have you. Just relax." He licked a stripe up the vein on the underside of his sex and then closed his mouth around him.

"Easy for you to say." Fingon nonetheless clenched his teeth, leaving his lip out of harm’s way, and tried his best to relax- something which seemed impossible with Maedhros above him and around him. There was suddenly warmth and suction and Maedhros’ clever, clever mouth. For all that he was as new to this as Fingon, Maedhros proved an apt student and a quick learner—and Fingon took half a moment to wonder if he would be able to keep up with him, to please him and to prove worthy of his attention and careful ministrations and love. "Please, Russ. More," he called softly. He reached out with one hand to gently thread his fingers through Maedhros’ hair, letting the familiar feel of it ground him.

Maedhros popped off with a gasp, replacing mouth with hand to keep Fingon on edge. “Everything,” he replied. “You’ll have everything of me, more than I can give, until it is too much,” he vowed, suddenly lovedrunk himself, and kissed the head of Fingon’s member, still stroking, still pumping with his hand, ever quickening. “I want you to come for me now, Finno,” he ordered, voice quiet but command stern, and swallowed Fingon down to the base until he could no longer breathe.

Fingon threw his head back, exposing the column of his neck. He arched off the bed, hand tangling in Maedhros’ hair as he obeyed him without question. His mouth fell open on a silent scream, his toes curled, and the muscles in his legs clenched as he went taut as a bowstring. Then he fell back to the bed, panting as though he had just finished a race. He carded his fingers through Maedhros’ hair, petting him while he trembled and shook and mewled. He had thought he had been wrung out before, had thought he had been sated and sensitive when Maedhros started in on him again, but this was something else. This was flying higher than Taniquetiil and floating, weightless, in the sea’s warm embrace. It was pleasure and exhaustion and perfection. He gulped down air as he collapsed on the bed, unable to move even had he been willing.

Maedhros swallowed Fingon down, finishing with his fingers, helping him to the end until Fingon began to keen in real (if not intense) pain. “Shh, shh, I have you,” he whispered, pulling himself up so he could wrap his arms and legs around Fingon and hold him close. Fingon was wrung out, his limbs twitching faintly and his eyes closed, breath coming in short gasps, heart hammering. Maedhros thought he was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “Such a good boy,” he hummed, “so proud. I love you so much, Finno. Thank you,” he continued, petting his hair and kissing across his face. “Just lie still for me. I am going to get you some water in a moment, and then we’re going to sleep.”

"M’kay." Fingon was not sure he could move even if he wanted to; the most he could manage was to lean slightly into Maedhros’ caresses, smiling softly and relaxing further at the compliments. Ever since he could remember he had wanted to please Maedhros, to make him proud. And the thought that something so simple as giving himself up to Maedhros could give him so much pleasure was incredible. He felt his body give a half-hearted twitch at the thought, then decide upon relaxation and nothing more. He sighed, eyes closing briefly while he waited for Maedhros to return to him.

Maedhros pulled a blanket over them both as he slid back in next to Fingon, lifting his head and holding a champagne flute, now full of water, to his mouth. “Drink up, then we can sleep,” he said, and when Fingon finished he set the glass aside and wrapped them up in a nest of blankets, settling himself as much over the top of Fingon as he felt it was safe to do. “All right?” he checked, kissing his cousin’s cheek.

"Mhmm. Perfect. Love you." Fingon was less than coherent, and putting together even that much of a sentence tok effort. "Hold me?" He begged. Maedhros had settled himself half over him, and the feeling he was left with was pure bliss, such as made Aman itself feel cold and harsh in comparison. "I love you so much," he whispered. "My beloved Russandol, my future husband, my life, my light. I am yours."

"Hush, I know, I know," Maedhros said, kissing Fingon’s neck, below his jaw, tenderly. He smiled. "You can tell me in the morning. Now sleep. I love you." He curled his limbs around Fingon entirely, until every possible inch of their bodies were touching. "I love you," he said again, kissing his closed eyelids and lips softly. "Good night, my beloved, my future One, my present One. I love you."

The last Fingon remembered were Maedhros’ words as the world around him faded to black and he slept, as Maedhros had said he would. It was a deep sleep, and though he did not remember dreaming he would swear that he remembered feeling Maedhros’ content presence near him as he slept—a guardian, friend, lover and guard. One next to whom he could sleep safely and fitfully. And if he recalled anything of his night-visions that night, it was of happiness, contentedness, and a warm frame around his that would protect him from all the world and against all the world. It was of tangled necklaces with exquisitely crafted rings, and of hands sturdy enough for work in the forge, and delicate enough to craft the most intricate crystals or trace featherlight patterns upon his skin. As he sank into sleep, as he slept, and as he woke he thought of nothing except his betrothed, their lives, and their future. And Aman to him seemed Good, even more so than it had seemed before. And he knew that his life was blessed, and that through all his years he could ask for nothing more than this- for Maedhros safe, happy, and content—for this was the sum of his wishes, his needs, and his own happiness.

Maedhros dozed for about an hour before the mess between them and on the bed began to annoy him in earnest. Not only that, but they were in grandfather’s bed, and this thought was so horrifying that he immediately eased himself from around Fingon to go to the watercloset in search of a washcloth to clean them up. For all Finwë had given them the go-ahead, it wouldn’t do to leave a mess. The servants didn’t need to gossip about anything. He should probably take their sheets to the washroom personally just to be safe, actually. Also—he cast about the room—where were their clothes? They shouldn’t be discovered sleeping in the nude. He double-checked that the door was locked.

When Maedhros had finished puttering and turned back, Fingon was out of bed as well. He had found a patch in the middle of the floor perfectly lit with starlight from outside the window, and sank down onto it facing Maedhros. He knelt, nude, his head inclined downward and braids resting against his back while one wrist gripped the other gently at the base of his spine. As Maedhros saw him, he looked up, and met his cousin’s gaze with starlit eyes.

Maedhros sucked in a sharp breath at the sight, and his mouth went suddenly dry. “Ah—” he said aloud, dumbly, before he shook himself. Schooling his features into a scowl, trying to ignore his very physical response to—whatever this was— “Findekáno, what are you doing?” he hissed in the darkness.

Fingon hesitated, trying to lay out his thoughts before he spoke. “You wished something of me. And earlier, spoke as though my actions had ruined your plans. So I would think that I owe you an apology.” He sighed. “And afterwards, I fell asleep without even trying to see to your needs. You wrecked me beloved, but my actions could be deemed rather rude.” He raised his head and straightened his spine slightly as he held Maedhros’ eyes. “Do you remember when we sparred the other day? I asked you if you would like me naked, bound and kneeling before you, and your response seemed clear. So here are two of those things; you are welcome to add in the third.” He still could not read how Maedhros would react yet. “And Russ—this is okay. We may not have many nights together for quite some time- why not use it? And I promise you, I will enjoy anything you do to as much as you will. Do you know what it did to me when you pinned me down and threatened to choke me that day? How much I longed for you to have your hand on my throat instead of a stick? I cannot tell you what it was like tonight when you destroyed me like you did. And all I wanted was to please you.”

"Finno," Maedhros whispered, aching physically as well as in his heart, as Fingon’s words and stance awoke a dangerous fire in him. "I should not…" He swallowed thickly, but approached. He was trembling faintly, but then, so was Fingon, he could tell as he came closer. Now he was close enough to reach out to touch Fingon (to pull his hair, tug on it til it brought tears to Fingon’s eyes) but he waited. "You please me very much, Finno," he said, and slipped his hand under Fingon’s chin to look him in the eye. His fingers lingered as much as his gaze, until his hand crept round to encircle his cousin’s throat, no pressure, but a steady weight. "Now," he said, his voice firm but quiet. "You must tell me if at any time you wish to stop. Swear that you will, Findekáno."

"I-I swear." Fingon’s breath hitched and his voice shook slightly. "Anything. But tonight, this time… use me?" He pleaded, wanting this to be just for Maedhros. Wanting to give him something, when Maedhros had been taking such good care of him. When Maedhros was still so afraid to take control, to take what he wanted. He craned his head upward, now that Maedhros was standing (trembling) so close. "Please."

"I will not use you,” Maedhros said, if nothing else taking advantage of Fingon’s focus and willingness to listen (and perhaps the sternness that crept into his voice was part of the play, too). “For you are not yet mine to use. You can rest assured, however, that I will enjoy tonight—and you may not,” he added, with a wicked smile. Fingon was beautifully formed, for all that he was yet slight with youth, and the top of his head did yet not reach Maedhros’ hip. “Here, up,” he said suddenly, fingers digging into flesh as he hauled Fingon up to reach his full height while still on his knees, not sitting back on his feet. “You’re not going to do me much good down there.”

Fingon allowed himself to be guided, trembling with anticipation and desire as he waited to see what Maedhros would do. And what he meant by his previous threat. His eyes closed briefly just thinking about it. And about their future—and when he would be Maedhros’ to use. But whatever his lover wanted, he swore to himself he would provide this night. He rose on his knees and straightened his back, looking almost straight up at where Maedhros towered over him.

Maedhros shifted until he stood in front of Fingon, stroking himself until he was half-hard. “Open your mouth,” he ordered, nudging his sex against Fingon’s lips, shoving past teeth to rest against tongue. “Do not use your hands: keep them as they are. And I want you to swallow.” He laid his hand on the top of Fingon’s hand, gently, but warning. “I may guide you. It may hurt. If you need me to stop, unclasp your hands.”

Fingon’s hands clenched behind him and he knew Maedhros saw his stirring arousal twitch. He opened his mouth as far as he could, flicking his tongue as he tasted Maedhros and felt him grow in response. He blinked up at his standing lover, waiting for him to decide their next move and show Fingon what he wanted.

As Maedhros slid inside that coveted wet heat, his eyes rolled back and he had to stifle a whine of pleasure. “Ahh, yes, Finno, there’s a good lad.” He bit his lip, shoving a little deeper, a little harder. “You feel so good, your clever little tongue, your—” he gasped as he hit the back of Fingon’s throat, and tangled his fingers in his hair. “Deeper. I want to feel you try to swallow around me.” His voice had taken on a roughness that was not there before and he pulled back (Fingon sucked in a deep breath) before trying again.

Fingon whined around him as he receded. This time he pushed to the back of Fingon’s mouth, and continued to pull Fingon closer against him. Fingon swallowed as Maedhros hit the back of his throat, and felt him slip deeper than he had ever been. His eyes were not only watery from the rough treatment of his scalp, and yet… this was Maedhros. This was perfection. This was giving his lover something he wanted but had not dared to ask for before. His body was fully at attention, but he kept his hands clasped at the small of his back, fingers digging crescent marks into his wrist and palm. Maedhros moved back, and thrust forward again, and this time when Fingon reached his torso and there was nothing more to take in, he closed his eyes and moaned around his lover, hoping Maedhros would understand how incredible this was for him. How much it meant to him.

"Ahh-ah—" Maedhros shuddered out a moan, "that’s perfect. Do that again," he said, but Fingon was too out of breath to moan. Knowing this, Maedhros yet held himself deep before pulling back just as Fingon began to struggle in earnest. He loved the sight (and sound) of Fingon gasping for air through his nose, chest heaving, his mouth still full of him. Now Maedhros traced his hand over Fingon’s ears to his jawline while one rested on the back of his head, holding him still. "Good, Finno, I’m so very proud. You feel so good. I’m very close, but I’m not going to stop until I finish this time. Remember not to spill."

Fingon tried to nod slightly, panting and taking great gulps of air. His heart was fluttering as quickly as the wings of a bee bird, and he felt lightheaded- all of his blood was pooled lower in his body. He reveled in Maedhros’ hands against him, and at the agony of desire he felt, the almost irresistible urge to squirm, to thrust against the air in a vain hope to find some type of friction, to push himself against Maedhros' strong leg and rut against him. He tried to wet his mouth and lips, and then Maedhros opening him again and pushing his way in.

Maedhros did not, even in this haze of lust, fail to notice Fingon’s arousal, and he thought ahead to how he would best tease him, how he would make him moan and squirm, and just the thought of it brought him dangerously close before he’d begun in earnest, so he pumped quickly, in and out, thrusts shallowing as he drew closer and closer to the edge. “Good, good, good,” he whispered in time to his hips, and he grabbed two fistfuls of Fingon’s hair now to move faster, harder, deeper. Fingon gagged and gasped, juices running down his chin, and Maedhros decided it was beautiful. When he spent, it was a surprise, and he barely stifled his cry with soft groans as his hips slowed and then stilled. “Ai, Finno,” he whispered, eyes sliding shut as he hunched over his cousin.

Fingon could barely keep up with his cousin—he would not have been able to were Maedhros not controlling both their actions. He tried to keep his eyes open and focused upwards, watching Maedhros come undone above him (around him, in him). He felt messy, clumsy, and utterly wanted as Maedhros began to lose his rhythm. When he came it was unwarned and unexpected, and reminded Fingon of the first time they had come together, in the cabin. He had been on his knees before Maedhros then, as well, though Maedhros had been sitting and moving carefully within him, hands gentle and voice praising.

Swallowing greedily around Maedhros, Fingon groaned at the memory. And as Maedhros’ hips stilled and his legs trembled, Fingon tried to lengthen his climax, to draw out the last drops Maedhros might offer up for him. He suckled on him, moaning around him as his own hips shifted restlessly, and he tried to clean him with lathing, teasing swipes of his tongue even as Maedhros twitched and shuddered above him.

"Stop, stop, oh," Maedhros said weakly, hands on Fingon’s shoulders (though, by the Valar, his mouth was beautiful). His legs were shaking, and if Fingon kept this up, he was likely to fall on him. He pulled out, though neither of them wanted it, and staggered back to the bed, sitting on the edge before patting his leg, like he would summon a hound. "Here, Finno. Come here," he said while he caught his breath and his (decidedly evil, apparently, but he was going to embrace that tonight) plan began to take form: "on your knees. And keep your hands as they are."

Fingon stared at him wide eyes, breathless for a new reason as he watched Maedhros move shakily to the bed. He had done that, had wrought that in him. Maedhros called to him as Celegorm called his hounds, and though a flush rose in Fingon’s cheeks at the thought, his body moved in desire at this humiliation. And again at the knowledge that Maedhros was watching him and knew full well how his body was reacting to the command. Fingon kept his arms locked behind him and stumbled to the foot of the bed on his knees. His movements were hindered by his throbbing arousal and from having stayed in one position on his knees for too long. He kept his eyes on the floor in front of him as he moved as quickly as he was able to, until he knelt to Maedhros’ feet.

"Aww," Maedhros said fondly, hooking fingers behind Fingon’s ear and scratching, just to continue the game. "You are so lovely when you blush. This must be how you feel when you do this to me in public." He chuckled, inadvertently sliding his leg forward to tease at Fingon’s arousal. "Perhaps you’ll think better of it next time. Perhaps not." He brushed his fingers through Fingon’s hair a few more times before: "Now, finish cleaning me, and I will reward you."

The color deepened on Fingon’s face as Maedhros went further with his treatment. He bit his lip against a gasp as Maedhros brushed his leg against him, and his hand drew blood on his wrist (Maedhros could not see from where they were positioned, which was good) as he kept himself from thrusting forwards. At the next command he brought his head down, trying to balance himself on unstable legs as he began to lick and suckle at Maedhros’ spent body, carefully cleaning the last traces of their recent activity from him. Fingon thought that the noises Maedhros made, and the unconscious movements of his body were almost as fulfilling as Maedhros’ taking care of, or allowing him to take care of, his own arousal would be.

"Mm," Maedhros hummed contentedly, finally lifting Fingon’s head for him before he could twitch back to life again more than he already was. "Good boy," he said, "now stand up, carefully." He helped Fingon get shakily to his feet, holding to one elbow, and guided him back to the bed. "Good, good," he continued, moving Fingon where he wanted him. "I want your hands on the headboard now, and lie back, and—Findekáno!" Maedhros suddenly cried, seeing a small smear of blood across Fingon’s hand. "What did you do?"

Fingon hummed with pleasure as he was allowed to stand, shaking his legs out as he unbent his knees. Maedhros helped him onto the bed, and his thoughts filled with all the places this could go. And imaginings of this happening in the future. He obeyed his lover’s commands, wondering if he would receive further pleasurable torture or a swift release.

And then Maedhros was yelling. Fingon glanced at his hands; he had not even been aware he had drawn blood- and apparently with both hands, the one on his wrist, the other on scoring his palm as he clenched and unclenched his hand. “It’s fine, Russ. It’s nothing.” His voice was scratchy, and he momentarily wished for another flute of water, though there was none near the bed and he was hardly about to get up and leave. Instead he tried to swallow several times in quick succession before continuing. He shook his head at his cousin’s worry. “I’ve had worse fighting with Tyelkormo for Makalaure’s plates of dessert when he decides he’s too full for them. Russ? Are you alright?”

Maedhros ground his teeth: perhaps he was pretending to be angry, for the game, but he was also, himself, genuinely worried. “Yes, but this is my fault,” he explained sternly, taking Fingon by both wrists (ignoring his obvious arousal—Fingon would wait as long as Maedhros said he would) and guiding him off the bed and to the small watercloset. There he ran hot water and washed the cuts: they were indeed small nothings, really, but it was the principle of the thing. “You had given me control of yourself, and you were hurt,” Maedhros explained. “I am responsible. Here,” he handed Fingon a cup of hot water. “Sip this. For your throat.” And while they were here, Maedhros sat down and took a moment to file Fingon’s nails short, making him wait and beginning to wonder when Fingon would snap and beg for relief.

Fingon breathed through his nose as Maedhros found other things to do before they returned to bed. He still wasn’t quite sure how they had gone from tumbling into bed to sitting in the washroom at some wee hour of the morning under a blaring lamp as Maedhros destroyed his nails—which he liked at their current length, thank you very much. But he allowed his cousin his efforts, and tried his best to wait, refusing to play into Maedhros’ game and beg after he had offered his body for Maedhros’ use, failing to specify what that use could include. He rolled his eyes at Maedhros explanation, and eventually he felt his own desire begin to die down and his arousal soften as they settled in the washroom. It was not a particularly pleasant feeling, but Maedhros had brought him to an unbelievable high twice already this night. Perhaps he was simply being too greedy. He sighed as he felt his heart rate slow and he and watched Maedhros inspect his decimated nails.

“There,” Maedhros said with satisfaction and a wicked grin as Fingon began to lose interest. “Now if you think I am done with you, you are mistaken.” He swatted Fingon on the thigh: “Go on back to bed, and lie on your back, and hold onto the headboard, and wait for me. You may ask for one thing from me when I return, so think on it. Understand?"


	5. Chapter 5

Fingon rolled onto the bed, stopping on his back somewhere near the middle. He sprawled, comfortable now, and his eyelids drooped as he waited for Maedhros. He had done what he truly wanted—brought Maedhros to a peak in a new way that he had wanted but would not ask for previously. Now he felt himself drifting to the area between sleep and waking as he watched shadows dance across the ceiling and tucked his cold feet under the extra blanket at the foot of the bed.

Maedhros waited a few moments only before returning, crawling up onto the bed, not touching Fingon specifically but brushing over his body, planting his hands on either side of his chest and gazing down into his eyes. “What would you ask me for, Finno?” he grinned softly, and leaned down to kiss his cheek because he wanted to.

Fingon felt Maedhros slide into place above him, and he blinked his eyes open. He had not thought about the question, and answered the first thing that came to mind. It did not fit their game—which he felt somewhat bad for, though he could not regret his request.

"Forever." Maedhros looked at him, and he thought about exactly what he wanted, then explained further. "It I can have one thing, that is what I want. If you leave, you come back for me, if I leave, you come and find me. If we get separated, we find each other." And, because this sounded more like an ancient tale from Beleriand (for they were safe in the bliss of Valinor), "if one of us dies, whomever passed would fight tooth and nail until receiving a new hröa and finding the other." He shrugged. "That is what I would ask of you."

Maedhros was startled nearly to tears. Of all the responses he expected, that was not one. “Oh, Finno,” he breathed, pressing a loving kiss to his lips, pressing his warm body over Fingon’s. “Yes. Yes of course, you have it. Forever. Beyond the Remaking of the World, beyond the End. You and I will be forever.” He blinked away tears, kissed Fingon again, and then giggled. “How am I supposed to defile your hröa as I planned, after you have wounded my fëa so!”

"Yes, beyond the End." Fingon breathed the words as though they were a prayer. He longed to touch Maedhros, to comfort him, but he kept his hands firmly attached to the headboard as Maedhros had requested. "With great passion?" Fingon suggested with a wry grin. Then, more seriously, "I did not mean to wound you. I would never mean to wound you. I love you Russandol, and will gladly receive whatever you would give me."

Maedhros licked a stripe up Fingon’s neck, wrapping his limbs around him. “All right, enough with the headboard nonsense. You may do whatever you like with your hands, only do not touch yourself. I want to—try something—” he said, reaching for the oil beside the bed and coating his fingers. “Tell me if you wish me to stop, but I would like to breach you with my fingers—see if I can draw you over the edge without actually touching you—your sex—” he reached down, ghosting over Fingon’s member before massaging gently over his entrance. “Would you like that?”

Fingon choked on air. The thought of it- and the threat that he would be asked to come untouched… he nodded vigorously, feeling his body react once more, and with surprising intensity. He held his breath as Maedhros touched him where he had never been touched before, not even by himself. And he wondered, suddenly, about what Maedhros had felt earlier when he had opened him with his tongue. He gasped as he was breached, and his hands came down—one to fist in the bedding, the other to cling to Maedhros’ free arm. “Oh! Ruuuusss.”

"Shh, hush," Maedhros cooed softly, brushing lips against Fingon’s face, his hair tumbling over both of them. "I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you. This should not hurt. Stop me if it does," he said, and pressed a finger inside, just barely, testing, before pulling out again. "Can you relax for me, Finno? Just relax, know that I have you—forever."

"Forever." Fingon relaxed by inches, willing his body into settling, refusing to allow it to be anything but open and welcoming for Maedhros. This was what he wanted—what they wanted. And this was a rehearsal for what they one day would share. "Okay. Okay, Russ. I think I’m good. ‘m sorry."

"Of course you’re good. You’re always good," Maedhros praised, raining gentle kisses across Fingon’s face. He thrust his finger in and out again, gently, carefully, a fraction deeper each time before he dared to press all the way, held it for a second, and drew it out again. "There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?" he checked, kissing Fingon again as he re-oiled his finger. He tucked Fingon’s head into his shoulder and held him close, covering him with his body. "It’s going to feel good in a minute."

Fingon nodded, breathing already ragged as he tried to catalogue the new sensation. “Not bad at all,” he breathed. He leaned up to press his head against Maedhros’ shoulder. His legs fell open further as Maedhros pushed in and he shut his eyes, concentrating on where they were joined. Maedhros was correct—it did not hurt. It just felt…odd. Maedhros pulled out, and added more oil to his hand before breaching him again, and he felt himself stretching to accommodate two fingers. Maedhros brushed the fingers of his free hand across Fingon’s cheek and he turned into the touch, opening his eyes as Maedhros probed deeper, fingers brushing against the spot he sought.

“Russ!!!” Fingon’s feet thrashed and the hand on Maedhros’ arm squeezed around it. His eyes were opened wide as he stared up at his grinning cousin. Maedhros locked eyes with him and thrust his fingers in the same way. Fingon gasped. “Oh, oh Russ! Please!”

Maedhros huffed, heart fluttering as Fingon suddenly sprang to life, every inch of him electrified as Maedhros touched him, as Maedhros stoked that fire. It was perfect, seeing his cousin so helplessly undone, so taken apart by lust and flailing on the touch of two fingers alone. The scene was marred by one thing only, and that was that Fingon had always had a healthy set of lungs, which, though it only further swelled him with pride and power, was not exactly safe in their current position.

"Ahh, hush, Finno," Maedhros said, pulling back slightly (but committing the location of that bundle of nerves inside of Fingon to memory) and pushing Fingon’s face into the crook of his neck more forcefully. "Shh, shh, quiet, remember? I need you to be quiet for me, melda," he said, and crept his hand around so he could clap it over Fingon’s mouth if he needed to, but in the meantime stroked his flushed cheek with the back of his hand. "Now tell me," he whispered, his wicked streak showing, "very sweetly and very quietly, what you want. There’s a good boy.”

"R-Russ." Fingon dropped his voice to a whisper, though it trembled and stuttered. "Please, please melda. Please my love. More." Fingon’s legs rose as Maedhros continued to tease his entrance, and he planted his feet flat on the bed, giving him the leverage to move onto the fingers pushing into him. "Please, Russ, will you put another finger in me? I would have as much of you in me as my body can take."

"Shh, shh," Maedhros continued, stroking Fingon’s hair, mouthing at his lips as he spoke, each breathing in the other’s air. "I will, I will," he promised. He hiked his leg up over Fingon’s to keep him from taking control of this situation, and flipped him toward him, on his side, and reached around behind him to continue thrusting in and out. "But you have to be quiet, remember? I have you. Let me take care of you, hush," he said, and battered against that nub of pleasure inside of Fingon.

Fingon could not still his hips entirely, though the new position helped to contain their motion. He was not sure whether he was thrusting forwards to try to find some relief for his aching arousal or backwards to push himself more firmly onto Maedhros’ fingers. “I know,” he whimpered. “Sorry. Please.” He had eyes for nothing but Maedhros, and even as his lover gave his body never before experienced delights, he found himself captured by his cousin’s face. Maedhros was focused on him with a sharp intensity, and for all that he was being stern and strong he looked at Fingon with an adoration he could not believe he was worthy of. Maedhros looked at him like Fëanáro looked at his last completed project, or at his children. And even with his body sated and likely quite tired given the hour, Maedhros seemed not only content, but entirely pleased to be well on the way to dragging his body to new heights of ecstasy.

“Don’t be sorry, you’re all right.” Maedhros bit his lip, until he decided he’d rather be biting Fingon’s lips, and did so. His breath came quick and sharp, his eyes searching Fingon’s body like a book: watching for signs of (real) distress (a bit of distress was desirable here) and drinking in every wave of pleasure his cousin went through as greedily as if he too were enjoying it. “Good boy, good,” he panted, kissing Fingon’s cheek, nibbling at his ear, brushing sweaty hair back from his brow. “I’m going to add another finger, and we will see how far I can take you. I want you to let go, Finno, I want to see you come undone. Just hush, remember, shhh…” and he kissed Fingon as he added that third finger, only up to the second knuckle, only to keep him from crying out.

Fingon breathed out harshly against Maedhros. He bent his head to bit at his shoulder, muffling the moans he could not entirely stop as a third finger moved deeper inside of him. “Valar,” he mouthed against damp skin. “Anything for you. Anything. I can’t, I feel…” He pulled back to look at Maedhros and took a shaking breath. “Was it like this for you, earlier? Did you feel like this when I had my tongue moving inside you? Were you desperate for something more?… I can’t even. I—more, please!” he begged. “Want more of you in me.”

"Yes, yes," Maedhros said, petting him, gentling him, though his fingers were attempting to do the opposite, as if one hand was good and the other was only wicked. "Yes, Findekáno, you do this to me. I am like this inside whenever you are near me, inches from coming undone with thoughts of you. When you touch me, or kiss me, I forget my own name. Everything of me is gone and there is only you. Are you there yet, melda, my love, my treasure? Have you gone somewhere where only I am?" He kissed across Fingon’s face and neck, and assaulted the nerves inside him, making him kick and whine desperately. "Because I am there now. Here, with you, there is only you, and I more than love you, I need you."

Fingon felt a tear track down his cheek at his cousin’s words. He was constantly making small sounds now, whimpering and biting off moans. And he no longer thrust forward to try to find relief for his aching member. All of his focus was instead on the places where Maedhros touched him—the fingers within him, the soothing hand running over his skin, the lips and tongue moving across his skin but always returning to his own lips and tongue.

“Only you. Only ever you.” Fingon shook his head, flinging off a drop of sweat. “Love you. Need you. More than words can say, beloved.” He broke off as Maedhros twisted the fingers within him, and bit his own lip roughly. “Oh!” And then, again, “Please more. Faster, harder, deeper, anything! Please melda. Please my betrothed.” He gasped at the next movement. “I ache for you.”

Maedhros growled ferally, determined to bring Fingon to completion if he had to wring it out of him. He pressed Fingon’s face roughly against his chest and, “Bite down if you have to, but keep quiet. I’m going to finish you,” he declared, and worked his fingers harder, deeper, still not allowing Fingon to rut against him, though he tried. “Come on, Finno,” he gasped, sweat breaking out across his back as he worked, “come for me, melda.”

Fingon thought he could come from the first statement alone. He writhed, arching his back and thrusting onto Maedhros’ fingers as they moved. Maedhros was a quick study, and time and again shoved his fingers across the spot that had Fingon trembling and gasping as waves of desire coursed through him. “Russ, Russ, Russ.” He moved back against the hand as his eyes rolled back and he turned his head to bite at the pillow, not wanting to harm Maedhros with his clenched jaw. A fire that started at the base of his spine swept through him, and the world went white as Fingon came undone at his lover’s command. He remembered continuing to move against Maedhros as he came to completion and then there was blackness. When he opened his eyes his heart rate was beginning to settle and Maedhros was watching him.

After going entirely rigid (and crying out, Maedhros had had to stifle him with his body), Fingon suddenly went entirely limp in his arms, except for occasional, slight twitches from overstimulation. Maedhros must have kissed Fingon a thousand times as he reached behind him for the wet cloth he had brought, cleaning first his fingers and then the mess between them, before he gathered his cousin into his arms like a mother hen. “I’ve got you, Finno, I’m here,” he said, rolling over so Fingon was mostly beneath him, head pillowed, body supported, every inch of him protected and touched and loved. “You were so good for me, so good, I am so proud of you, I love you. I have you, shh.” He waited patiently for Fingon to remember himself, content in the meantime to watch his cousin coo and squirm, as weak as a babe.

Fingon returned to himself with Maedhros’ words of praise in his ears. He felt beyond exhausted and he felt protected, comforted, loved. He wished to stay in this moment as years passed around them without note. “Love you too,” he managed to respond. “So good to me, so strong, so caring. You’re perfect, Russ. And I love you so.” He tangled one hand with his cousin’s, linking their fingers in solidarity and for the simple pleasure such an act brought. “Inyetye-mela. Tenn’ Ambar-metta, NelyaFinwë Maitimo, my Russandol.” He squeezed their hands gently, eyes never straying from his lover.

"Tenn’ ambar-metta," he replied, kissing Fingon gently, again and again. "Ohh, I love you so much," he moaned, pressing their brows together before pulling back slightly, his smile warm. "Thank you. Thank you for—for letting me. Did you like that? Did I hurt you? At all, at any point?" He ran his hands now over Fingon’s limbs, checking for signs of injury or distress.

"Did I like that? Russ, I can barely move. You are incredible. And earlier…" He blushed. "I liked being on my knees for you. Just as I liked having you on your back and spread open for me." He moved his free hand to cup Maedhros’ face. "You take such good care of me. I could never wish for a different lover." His voice lilted slightly. "You are a terrible tease though, Russ. You may act like a rather placid prude, but I know much better. I feel so…so open right now. So sensitive, but so empty. Now that I’ve had you within me, how can I go through life without constantly wanting that and wanting more? Wanting you to have me fully, when we finally bond? I can’t imagine how full I’ll feel then, how it will be to have you sheathed in me and moving within me."

He smiled softly at Maedhros, eyes dancing. “And no, I’m not hurt. Not at all. I’m not so delicate and breakable as you seem to think. What of you, cos? Are you well? Are you pleased with this night? And, though it’s rather gotten away from it- this last bit started as an apology. Is it accepted?”

Maedhros tossed back his head and laughed before he remembered he was meant to be quiet, and buried his face in the pillow next to Fingon’s head, in his hair, giggling. “I have yet to remember what you have to apologize for, but yes, of course, and always, I forgive you,” he whispered when he resurfaced. “I am well—I am floating above the stars now, Finno. I—I think I enjoyed very much to rule over you, if only for a night. I think I would grow soft and stupid if you were so obedient all the time!” He leaned in, nipping at Fingon’s ear again. “But it was delicious. You are delicious.” He drew in a somber breath. “And as for waiting, so it must be. If you continue to test my patience, though, know you will break it, so I beg you not to. I long for the day I might spear you until you cried for mercy to the heavens and only I could release you. But. We are in the realm of the Valar, and under their law and our own, and I would not defy it even more than we already have. Know that I would dare anything for you: in this I do not dare attempt, precisely to protect you. Do you understand why we must wait?” He smiled sadly. “And is not this enough, in the meantime?”

“It is and will be,” Fingon said, suddenly serious. “I understand. I told you that I would accept whatever you would give me, and this holds true. I will never ask you to break our traditions and if necessary I will push us to keep them. We owe that to ourselves and to Grandfather.” He gave a half smile. “But that does not mean I will not dream. If you wish, I will try to keep my dreams and imaginings to myself from now on.”

Maedhros pressed their noses together briefly, grinning. “Oh, you had better not keep them to yourself. I will commit each dream to memory and craft them into reality for you.” He shifted now, turning them on their sides again, tucking Fingon against him so they could sleep. “Here, are you comfortable? I don’t want to crush you.”

Fingon sighed against him. “This is perfect. Are you comfortable? I’d like to be enclosed in your arms tonight if such an arrangement pleases you.” He draped an arm across Maedhros. “Oh, and Russ—not always, and I like trying new things with you, but if you want that again—to rule over me for a time—you need only ask. I enjoyed it very much as well.”

Maedhros hummed, arms tightening around Fingon. “I am glad to hear you say that, for my plan was to wrest rule from you whether you willed or no.” There was an edge of teasing in his voice, but just enough seriousness that Fingon shivered. “At any rate we have many years like this, to try new things, as you say.”

"Hmm." Fingon traced his fingers lightly across Maedhros’ side, delighting in the opportunity to simply touch. "We do. And if you wish to…grapple…I can see how that could be pleasurable." He matched Maedhros’ seriousness with his next statement. "You need never force me to do something, however; I am yours as you are mine—what you wish of me I will gladly provide. You remember our first night together at the lake, when we slept in one another’s arms with gentle kisses on our lips and warm promises in our ears? You were as one of the Valar rising from the lake that night, encircled with radiant light. You could bind me before you and I would gladly worship your form. But even dearer to me is your fea, your true self. I have loved you since before I could speak, and that shall never change. You became the center of my world, and there is little I would not do to see you happy and content."

"And I you, ever since I met you. Do not laugh, Findekáno, but when you were yet a babe I loved you, with a love I did not understand at first, and later, was ashamed of.” But Maedhros laughed in embarrassment, even as his eyes watered. “Damn the years that separate us,” and, well, the fact that they could never produce heirs, but that was a secondary, even tertiary issue, and he did not voice it. Instead, his kissed Fingon’s temple, tracing his fingers over Fingon’s arms, scratching gently. “But we should sleep. Oh—and dress—I locked the door, but if Findaráto comes in here to see us like this, I might die of mortification if he does not die of shock.”

Fingon practically purred at Maedhros’ ministrations. “Here, lie back and let me grab our clothes.” He kissed Maedhros’ brow and he sat up with a groan. “Could we just lay them out on the night table? The door is locked, and when Findaráto knocks we can pull them on as we get the door. I… I wish to be close to you this night, and to feel skin against skin if you would have it.” He moved to grab their clothing, which Maedhros’ had begun pulling together earlier.

Maedhros made to protest, sitting up, but he could not deny Fingon’s request was what he wanted, too. “Very well.” Then, with more confidence: “Yes, good.” He held his arms wide as Fingon laid their bedclothes over the footboard: “Come to my arms, my love, my Fair One, my betrothed and beloved.”

Fingon fell into his arms. “Russ. Friend and cousin, protector and comforter, betrothed and beloved. My life, my light, and my joy. I love thee.” His eyes watered slightly as he kissed Maedhros gently and settled in his arms. “Thank you,” he added, indicated the clothing piled on the night table. He waited until they were comfortable before bringing up the more difficult topic. “Russandol, what you said before…” Fingon was not sure how to comfort him, to reassure him. Maedhros was usually the one doing this for him. “Never have I desired anyone but you. Never have I looked on another and felt as I do for you. You fëa calls to mine, and I know we are never to be truly sundered.”

He brought his hand up to caress Maedhros’ cheek. “If you wish to judge yourself, then judge me. We loved each other always, and as we grew our understanding of that love changed. This cannot be unnatural—how many married Noldor knew one another as children? Surely quite a few were friends and partners, albeit in a different way, even then.” He brushed a strand of hair behind his cousin’s ear before letting his hand fall back to Maedhros’ side. “You have done nothing wrong. You could do nothing wrong. This is right Russ, I know that as surely as I know that grass is green and the sky is blue, that Ambarussa will cause trouble, and that your parents’ next projects will be remarkable. This is true, and I cannot imagine that Eru would feel anything but joy for such love and devotion. Surely Grandfather’s reaction indicates that.”

Maedhros bit his lip and blinked back tears, welcoming Fingon into his arms as much as he welcomed air into his lungs: not gratefully, but simply that it needed to be there. “Yes, yes, of course. Of course you are right.” Maedhros huffed softly, and was quiet a moment as Fingon’s words sank in. He was right. Their love was pure. That certain details were taboo and might be frowned on by a court that frowned on the fact that his mother was not as pretty as the rest of the ladies in the court was hardly his problem. He sighed. “Thank you. I just—I suppose I love you so much I second-guess whether I am good enough for you. I know I should not, mainly because it takes away from your strength, your agency, your ability to choose me whether or not I am worthy. I am sorry.” He took Fingon’s hand, laced their fingers together, and kissed the back of his hand. “I love you.”

"I love you," Fingon responded immediately, squeezing Maedhros’ hand. "We’ll have to agree to disagree—I cannot understand why you think I am good enough for you. Russ- you’re a brilliant crafter and artist, you are kind and gentle, you are wonderful with children. You help others with no thought of reward or recompense. You aid your parents in every way you can. You and your brothers fail to understand how far ahead of most of the Eldalië you are when it comes to linguistics and rhetoric- to you what you do is normal, but I swear to you it isn’t. Even in the areas you ‘dabble in’ your ability is near to a master’s level. More than that you’re beautiful inside and out, and I grew up exceedingly grateful that you were in my life." He moved their hands to wrap around the chains they wore, holding their betrothal rings between their palms for a moment. "Tyë melin. And I thank Eru each night I drift off safe in your arms."

"Oh Findekáno, stop," Maedhros said, though he was warmed at Fingon’s words of praise, and he could not relax the grin fixed on his face. "Very well: I accept that I am the most eligible bachelor in all Aman, and with this power to choose, I will choose you and no other. Your father would hardly deny me if I am as good a catch as you say," he pointed out, unsure whether he was still joking or not, but he immediately grew serious. "Just remember, Finno, that where I am good, you are my inspiration to be so. Think on that, if you should ever doubt what you mean to me. Ever I was motivated by you looking up to me than by others—father, mother—building me up. If you admire me, know that you inspired me to be admirable. So we were always bound." He kissed Fingon’s hair and scratched his back where Fingon lay tucked in against his shoulder. "Tyë melin. I love you, Findekáno."

"We were always bound—I like that." Fingon yawned. "I love you. And I’m about to fall asleep on you—I hope you don’t mind. You’ve worn me out completely this night—though I must say, it will truly be a night to remember." And thinking back, their conversation with Finwë seemed so long ago, though less than a day had passed. Fingon snuggled into Maedhros’ warmth with a smile at Maedhros’ words and the thought of being this incredible ner’s inspiration. "Sleep well, and may peace find you this night."

Maedhros snorted, and his eyes slid shut. “I might be insulted if I did not wear you out, as that was my evil plan all along.” He yawned. “Good night, Finno. Sleep well. I know I will, with you here.”


	6. Chapter 6

Fingon woke early trying to stretch and mostly incapable of doing so. Maedhros was draped across him, head on the pillow next to his own. A heavy arm was thrown across his body and his cousin’s muscled leg caged his. On his chest he could just barely see where their necklaces were twisted together, rings touching. Fingon felt infinitely protected, desired and wanted. Even in sleep Maedhros clung to him…but he could not expect differently after their final discussion before giving in to sleep. He had nestled as closely to Maedhros as he could, and clung to him as he allowed darkness to come over him.

He pressed a soft kiss to Maedhros’ temple, and held back a groan. Maedhros’ body against his also meant that upon waking he found himself hard, pressed against a warm torso with Maedhros pressed firmly to his own skin. If he moved his arm a hand’s breadth he could brush where Maedhros pressed against him.

Maedhros floated toward wakefulness initially disoriented, wondering how in fact he found himself in this new position, before he remembered Fingon was beneath him and that this was good, and though dawn light shone in above them, he slept on, curling even tighter around his smaller cousin.

Fingon felt Maedhros shift slightly, body tightening around his. He sighed, trying not to move, even as Maedhros’ body began shifting slightly, clearly appreciating the warmth he was pressed against. Fingon brought his arm up, away from dangerous territory, and let it rest against Maedhros’ back while his fingers played idly with Maedhros’ hair.

"Mm," Maedhros twitched, recognizing Fingon’s curious fingers as a sign of wakefulness. He wasn’t ready, though: he wanted to lie forever like this. "Tickles," he murmured, shifting until— _Oh, so that was why Fingon was awake, then_. He chuckled, shifting his hand to palm at his cousin’s morning arousal.

Fingon tugged Maedhros’ hair gently as his cousin laughed, then slid his hand down, taking this as an invitation. He pressed his thumb against their bodies where Maedhros’ erection met his skin, and slowly dragged it along the line where their flesh met.

"Mm, stop that," Maedhros said. "I wanted to tease you…" he stopped his hand, instead shifting so that he lay trapping their arousals between their bodies, where their hands could not reach. "Now go back to sleep," he said, but this was a bluff, and though he closed his eyes he had no such intention.

Fingon laughed, not only at Maedhros’ threat, but in joy at the perfect weight of his cousin atop him, at the first strengthening rays of Laurelin’s and Telperion’s light floating through the window, at the song of the dawn birds outside and beginning the morning as he had fallen asleep—with Maedhros, and with the two of them thinking of nothing but one another.

"Ah, cousin, you’ve already gotten far too used to giving orders. I am not wholly yours to command; I do believe I shall eventually owe you some form of payback for last night, but that can come some other time." He stretched his arms above them and, gripping the headboard firmly, arched his back, lifting both of them and causing their bodies to slide slightly against one another, trapped arousals meeting as they slid against smooth skin.

"I—ohh, yes" Maedhros groaned, finding this most pleasurable, though it woke him fully at last. Then he laughed, too. "Ahh, Finno—you know I do not give up control easily. But for you I obviously make exceptions. If I did not, you would find a way to deviously and wickedly outsmart me." He raised himself on elbows and knees and kissed Fingon hungrily. "What time is it?" he asked absently, when the kiss broke.

"Not sure," Fingon muttered against his lips. "The first birds only just started their song; we still have some time before we will be expected for breakfast." He gave Maedhros a quick kiss and a grin. "I’m sure we can find something to do in the interim."

"I was just making sure." He smiled down at Fingon. "If I never had to look anywhere but at you again my eyes would be content." His gaze and his fingers wandered over Fingon’s features, committing what he had already committed to memory to his heart.

Fingon’s eyes closed as the fingers traced over his face. “Russandol. You spoil me. And you leave me desperate to improve myself; to be more than I am in the hopes that I can somehow approach how you think of me. But even now, like you, I wish we could stay in this moment as time sped by outside. I could stay like this for years and not tire of gazing upon you. Or of feeling your body over mine, your strength and weight protecting me, guarding me. Have I told you this morning how much I love you?”

Maedhros giggled—a sound ridiculous for one of his size and age. “No. But I have not either told you how very much I love you, how much I need you, how much I wish to make you happy.” Though the moment was pure, it seemed natural now to bring bodily contact into it, and balancing on his elbow he closed his hand around Fingon’s sex between them. “Do you know how happy it makes me to see you come undone? I wonder if I might find my own pleasure just watching you.”

Fingon’s pupils dilated further at the thought. “I had thought to simply be with you this morning; no games, just the two of us. But now… your words move me cousin. Tell me- last night you wished me to come untouched from your fingers within me- and as you desired, so I did. Would you dare to try something similar? Tell me, beloved Russandol, could you come untouched from the pleasure of what you do to me, and from my voice in your ear as I speak to you of some of those dreams and desires you wanted me to share? Could you hold yourself back from pressing against me, or asking for my hand on you, and let your imagination and my voice carry you to completion?” He leaned up to press his lips to Maedhros’ cheek, then dropped his head back into the soft dent of the pillow as he awaited an answer.

Maedhros huffed, grinning. “Ai, Valar, Fin!” he gasped. “I know not. I think I could—but in the heat of the moment I don’t know if I could control myself.” He squeezed Fingon, and stroked him, and watching Fingon’s mouth fall open certainly made him twitch, but he rocked down against his cousin’s body with a groan.

"No, I’m not one of the Valar. You already think too highly of me, which I haven’t fought you on, but that goes too far." He brushed his nose against Maedhros’ with a cheeky smile. "Roll over?” he asked. “Would you let me lie atop you for a while?"

Maedhros released a held breath through his nose and rolled to one side, pulling Fingon on top of him. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said, and slid his knees up between Fingon’s so that he straddled his waist. “But I suppose I shouldn’t swear.” He took hold of Fingon’s sex again, hand sliding up and down lazily. “Mm, I can see you better from here,” he said.

Fingon shook his head with a laugh. “You always have to be in control, don’t you?” He asked without expecting an answer. “Very well, but let me see you iron control, Nelyafinwë Maitimo. Do with me as you will, but do not pull me against you or try to press yourself against me again. Let us see how much it takes to make you spend yourself upon my skin—for I would have such an end, if you would allow it.”

"Ah, Findekáno," Maedhros growled, but the challenge was accepted. "You are trying to kill me," he laughed, his fingers exploring lower, fondling Fingon, making him squirm, and delighting in it. "Or demoralize me, should I fail. But as you say, so I will do—though if you wish to hear me beg for you, you might simply ask."

"I’m not trying to make you beg, though the thought alone… you can feel exactly what it does to me, my love." He cupped a hand along Maedhros’ face and leaned down to kiss him as Maedhros’ hands moved lower still. He arched against him, biting his lip and staring down at the hand on him. "Oh, oh Russ!" He jerked against him, thighs trembling slightly. "You hands feel so good upon me. They’re so strong and so skilled. They can pound iron or cut the tiniest facets into a gem. I feel like a gem, or some remarkable craft under their touch—surely they wring from me things I’ve never felt before. Tell me, Russ, what does if feel like to have my hands on you—so small compared to your own? Does it please you, or are you waiting for them to grow a bit firmer, a bit stronger, more of a match to your own?"

"I—ahh—" Maedhros felt already dizzy: maybe this would work, after all. "I like that your hands are s-smaller—more than I should, I think. But I also want to see you outgrow me—at least I want to see you try." His eyes gleamed and he squeezed Fingon in his palm, while his other hand came up to trace along Fingon’s body, up his flank to his side to his chest.

Fingon rubbed his hands up and down Maedhros’ chest in retaliation, lifting one to lay it over Maedhros’ hand as it moved across his body. The difference in their sizes was emphasized when they were pressed together like that, and after a moment Fingon slid his hand slightly, tucking his fingers into the gaps between Maedhros’ own. He squeezed his hand, then returned to tracing Maedhros’ collarbone, moving lower to focus on his chest, pinching and rolling with his fingers—small, but suited to delicate work. He fell silent a moment, trying to sort through all of the things he wanted to say, to find the perfect thought to speed Maedhros onwards.

"Ah," Maedhros sighed, staring at the difference in size between them. "You were always tiny. Not, I think, where it matters, though," he said with a wry grin, and gave Fingon another firm squeeze. His left hand was flat over Fingon’s chest, and he shifted a finger, grazing Fingon’s nipple. "Do you like that?" he asked.

“Oh!” Fingon gasped at the sensation, hips thrusting gently where he sat on Maedhros’ stomach. “You know I do. Do you not enjoy the same from me? Besides, I would enjoy any touch of yours for the simple fact that it was from you.” He smiled at Maedhros, then spread his thighs, so that he was seated fully atop Maedhros—he had found his thoughts, and hoped, preemptively, to impede Maedhros’ movement.

Speak to me Russandol,” Fingon asked suddenly, voice lowering as he leaned forward. “Tell me what you will do with me after we are wed; when I am yours to use. We shall journey to our valley, and you will set out a fine meal. I’ll lay out blankets upon the earth as the light of the Trees fades. And then what? Will you push me against a tree and press your desire to mine, holding my arms above my head one handed so that I can do nothing but strain against you and yield to your will? Or would you have me on the sheets on my back or on my hands and knees?” He looked at Maedhros with dark eyes. “Will you make me wait for you again, as you’ve so enjoyed doing? As you’ve done this past night? Would you have me strip and place myself before you, waiting until you grow bored of watching me squirm in an _agony_ of desire, need driving me even as I wait on your command?”

He paused, swallowing and feeling Maedhros shift under him, need driving his hips to move, though Fingon was too far up on his body for him to find any relief by doing so. “Or perhaps you will not want to wait—will I see you without your iron restraint, allowing your desires to rule your hroa? Will you throw me down and enter me quickly, letting me feel every inch as your press yourself deeper, and deeper, until we can be connected no further and are flush against one another? Would you take me roughly and in haste, that I might surrender my body to your own pleasure?” Fingon gave Maedhros a look that spoke to how greatly he would enjoy any of these options. “Or is there something else that appeals to you more?”

Maedhros’ pupils blew wide, and his arousal strained, even untouched, just as Fingon predicted. He growled low, fingers tightening around Fingon where he held him. “Yes,” he panted, his hips shifting, though he found no friction. “I would—I _will_ —take you roughly, first,” here he half-sat up, leaning close to Fingon, voice rasping, “and again, and I will hear you beg me for mercy and for more: only then will I become a perfect gentleman, waiting upon your every need. Know only for certain that I will not stop until we are both long exhausted. You will indeed have me without restraint.”

Fingon half fell upon Maedhros, one hand hitting the bedding above Maedhros’ shoulder to hold him up. His body jerked and he trembled at Maedhros’ words, awakening in him the fire he sought to awaken in his lover. “Please, that. That’s perfect, Russ. Want you; want that.” Arm shaking, he pushed himself back up, watching Maedhros strain against the air, thighs trembling and a string of pre come connecting the tip of his arousal to his body. His toes curled and uncurled, and Fingon was certain that they could do this—that Maedhros might come to completion from this alone. The thought made him groan, as he turned back to focus his attention again on Maedhros.

"I could want nothing more, my love. How do you know, even better than I know myself, what will please me? Tell me, please tell me that you speak your own desires, not just what you know mine will be? And tell me, when we are wed, will you let me ride you like this? Even as we are now? It makes grateful for my work on horseback—can you imagine me straddling you just like this and sinking down upon you? Would you buck up into me, or would you start off as still as a horse under one of the Eldar, letting me adjust to the position and begin to ride you slowly? Would you hold my hips with your hands—so large, so strong—and raise and lower me on you so that, even in such a position, you might control all that we did?"

"Ahh-uhhh—yes, Finno, yes—" his mouth was suddenly very dry, heat pooling low in his belly. How was this possible? Was Fingon so wonderful? There was only one answer to that. "I will guide you, yes. I will take your legs from under you so all your weight was on me at that one point, until it ached. And I will hold you and shush you and not let you cry. Just when you are barely accustomed to me I would move, I will make you move, and it will steal your breath. And all that power would surely go to my head and make me even more wicked." He huffed a laugh.

Fingon gasped, his body clenching as Maedhros’ stroked him to completion—though, as he intended for Maedhros, he was sure he could have come from the words alone. He bit at Maedhros’ shoulder, muffling his moans as his body jerked and spasmed, releasing into his cousin’s hand and across his chest as Maedhros watched him, looking far too pleased with himself. Fingon fought to catch his breath, to respond to his cousin. He lower himself slightly, leaving his face half a foot from his lover’s as he traced fingers along the edge of his ear and down his neck and jawline. His other hand moved to grip Maedhros’ own as it began to move, stopping him before he came near to touching himself.

“Sometime while we are in that valley, Russ, under your own mountains, I want to open you up again with tongue and fingers.” He started to speak through a tightened jaw, though his voice smoothed as he continued. “I’ll already know the sensation of being opened, being filled from you—and I promise I shall do my best to make it perfect for you. Will you lie on your back for me? I barely dare to dream this, but when I do, I have you legs wrapped around my waist, and your hands along my body—perhaps one tugging on my hair.”

He threaded his own hand through Maedhros’ hair, grasped a handful, and yanked on it to simulate the feeling. “If you are rough with me when we first come together, I will be gentle with you, my love. I will sink into you slowly, enjoying every fraction of an inch as I am wrapped in your tight heat, as I touch you where you have never been touched. Will you yield to me, cousin, and open yourself to me? I would start slow, but I fear I may be pounding into you before the end—for you will not be the only one finally able to relinquish restraint and to take and be taken in bonded union. I want that, Russandol; I want to see you come undone not only within my body, but around it—to watch you as I move inside you, seeking for our pleasure, straining to bring us both to release—”

"Ai, Findekáno!" Maedhros shouted, and with that cry he was spending himself, with a force he did not expect, painting across Fingon’s back. His body jerked and twitched and he sat up, holding Fingon to him as he finished. He whimpered, somehow over stimulated, as he fell back to the pillow. "You—you—" he gasped, and smiled softly up at Fingon. He was smug at the filthiness of this, that he was covered with Fingon’s seed as much as Fingon was now covered with his. Part of him wanted to rub it into his skin, to make him wear it all day. But he was also distracted by Fingon’s words. "Did you mean all that?" he asked, short of breath. "What you said?"

Fingon bit his lip again as he watched Maedhros come to completion. Though his body was sated and already sore from yesterday’s use, he found himself wishing he could rise again, certain he would have spent just watching Maedhros come apart in ecstasy. He felt his lover’s seed against his back, cheeks, and thighs, and wished he could leave it on his skin all day—another mark left by Maedhros. His cousin, however, somewhat obsessed with cleanliness would never allow it. Fingon brought a gentle hand up to stroke Maedhros’ cheek and thread through his hair at his question.

"Would it please you?" he asked. "I look forward to having you as you have me, of course, to spending within you—learning your body inside and out… Will I have the patience to be so tormentingly slow?" He shrugged. "I cannot be sure. And if you wish for us to come together in a slightly different way, I would not deny you."

Maedhros shook his head. “No. Good. I would have what you want, what you said. The thought of it pleases me more than I thought it could. I, ah—I guess I always thought—but why not?” Now he flushed, unable to put into words what he meant. “Anyway, know that however and whenever we come together I will enjoy it. I enjoy you. I would learn to enjoy you in every one of a thousand ways it is possible to enjoy you.” He surged upward now, stealing a kiss from Fingon—just as there was a knock on the door.

"Nelyo! Finno! I heard shouting, is everything all right?"

 _Finrod_.


	7. Chapter 7

"Dammit," Maedhros swore quietly, scrambling out of bed and reaching for a towel.

The corner’s of Fingon’s mouth turned down as he wiped himself off brusquely and threw on his nightclothes, taking a pitcher of water and pouring half of it over himself before chucking the rest at Maedhros, ignoring his jolt and displeased glare.

“Everything’s fine, Ingoldo,” Fingon called softy. He checked that Maedhros was half decent and opened the door. “And it’s all Nelyo’s fault, anyway. Do you know what he did?” He spoke with exaggerated irritation, and Finrod stared at him with wide eyes and shook his head. “He rolled over on me this morning! All the way over on my side of the bed! And he’s huge, right? I even kicked him and he just mumbled and kept sleeping. What could I do?” He threw out his arms.

Finrod shook his head. “What did you do, Findekáno?”

Maedhros’ mouth flapped for an excuse, or a better lie, but found none, so he settled on glaring at Fingon. In truth, it was probably the best solution to the problem. Fingon winked at Maedhros, and responded with a deadpan delivery: “I stretched my arm as far as I could, and reached, and reached…and took the pitcher of icewater still on the bedside table and dumped it down his back!”

"I think Findekáno’s reaction was completely out of proportion," Maedhros said, folding his arms, but Finrod giggled, clapping his hands over his mouth to stifle himself. He went to a window and threw it wide, letting the sunshine stream in and the smell Finrod was (hopefully, probably) too young to recognize out. "It quite spoiled my beauty sleep," he added jokingly, and Finrod burst out laughing in earnest, but when he had composed himself:

"Well, you could always sleep with me next time, Findekáno,"Finrod offered magnanimously, and in all seriousness. "I don’t move at all."

"Watch out, Goldo," Maedhros said, thinking quickly: "He snores."

"I do not!" Fingon contradicted, throwing his hand towel at Maedhros. "Even if I did, it wouldn’t be audible over the sounds you make in your sleep. Anyway, now that we’re finally up, we’d best get changed so we get down to breakfast. Are you ready to go adventuring with us?” Finrod’s smile grew even wider.

"Yes!" He bumped his fist against Fingon’s. "I’ll see you downstairs!" Finrod was already running as yelled back to them, and they heard his feet pounding on the stairs as Fingon shut the door, locking it. Fingon slumped against the wood, eyes distant and smile falling from his face.

Maedhros flopped backwards onto the bed with a panicky sigh, and covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Valar, we should not have done this. Finno, that was too close.”

“Too close?” He shook his head. “The door was locked, Nelyo. No one could have gotten in. And besides, I wasn’t the one who couldn’t keep quiet.” Fingon moved away from his cousin, grabbing his clothing for the day and laying it on the far side of the bed as he grabbed a basin of fresh soapy water and peeled off his nightclothes to try to get himself fairly clean—clean enough that he could eat with his uncle, grandfather and cousins.

"Ugh, I’m sorry," Maedhros said, his face so hot his ears were red to their tips. "I really am. I—forgot where—" he trailed off with a sigh, slapped his thighs, and got up to dress. "Might I partake when you’re done?" he nodded at the soapy water as he selected a brown tunic and dark maroon leggings.

"By all means." Fingon threw the wash towel in the basin, wiping his hands on a corner of their sheets. He avoided Maedhros as he moved towards him, ducking his touch and waiting for Maedhros to begin washing before beginning to dress. He eyed Maedhros for a moment, shaking his head. Then, "You do realize that you can be a complete ass at times, don’t you? I love you, but…" he shook his head again, lacking words.

Maedhros wheeled around, dropping the towel and his clothes in shock, before clutching them up around him again. “I—wait, what?” he almost shouted, before realizing he had shouted, and lowering his voice again nervously. “What did I do…wrong?” he asked, unsure whether he ought to be offended or crushed, his voice indicating his confusion. Had he upset Fingon by regretting almost getting caught?

Fingon stopped lacing his tunic and stared at Maedhros. “Think about what you’ve done to me, cousin, and suggested doing to me. Have I been less than pleased by any of it? Even when you have asked me to hold back, to deny myself, I did and will do it gladly for you, Russandol. But what I last suggested? It wasn’t some exotic request or strange suggestion. I painted a picture of making love to my husband for the first time following our wedding. And your response is that you’ve never imagined it, and ‘why not’?” He glared at Maedhros, his words growing more passionate as his temper flared, though his voice remained even and low. “You are older than me, taller than me, and stronger than me—at least for the time being. But did it never occur to you that I am a nér, that I, also, am a prince of the Noldor and a grandson of Finwë? Or do you see me as a damsel somewhat lacking in bosom? I will yield myself to you because I want to know you fully, to take you within me, to grant each of us that pleasure and to fulfill that bond. But if it is some horrible sacrifice on your part to do the same, better we not even go there.” He shook his head. “You never imagined that I would wish to take you? Well, I never imagined we would be anything but equals, whatever games we may engage in from time to time. I’d like to imagine that as a lover I rate something a little better than a ‘why not’.”

Maedhros gaped, backing away as Fingon advanced on him, and it took him a few tries to speak. “I, ah—wait,” he said. “I never said—that.” No, but he meant it. Or did he? He ran a hand over his face to clear his mind. “Let me explain. Please. Findekáno, please—” he reached out to take Fingon’s hands. “I only meant that—” He sighed, frustrated that he could not put this into words, and he backtracked, trying to address Fingon’s anger. Fingon’s anger hurt more than anything he could imagine. ”O-of course we are equals,” but he stuttered over the statement: oh, he was in trouble all right.

Fingon laughed once, bitterly. He turned his head down to continue working with his laces. “No. We’re not. However much I want us to be.” And looking back, that was strikingly clear. “Every time I gave you choices this morning, how did you respond? Of all the possibilities for our bonding—and even leaving it open to anything else you had imagined, you wished to take me harshly. When I gave you several ideas for a time when I might ride you, you latched on to the idea of gripping my waist with both hands and controlling my every movement.” He looked up at Maedhros, so close to him and yet with such distance between them. “I want those things, Russandol. But I want everything else as well. And if that is all you want, that is what I would give you, and give you wholeheartedly. But—forgive me—I hope you will grow to find it somewhat lacking.”

"NO," Maedhros said, surging forward and grasping Fingon firmly by the shoulders. He shook his head, face hot, tears stinging his eyes. He was more than embarrassed with himself: he was mortified. How had he hurt Fingon like this? By losing control of himself and his thoughts, that was how. "No, Fingon, I did not mean that. I spoke with mind clouded and mouth unguarded: I could never hurt you, nor forgive myself if I did. You must forgive me for words made harsh by lust. I thought—" he gulped, "I thought you liked it. I thought I did. Words only, not promises. And as for—" Now his hands shook, his jaw trembled, but he pressed on: "As for you taking me, Findekáno, I will yield myself to you—gladly. I just—I only meant that I had never considered it before. It was narrow-minded of me—and unfair to both of us. Why should a coital positon even indicate a power imbalance? It sounds absurd out loud, but yes, I confess I thought it, and I thought I was owed the position of greater power. I was wrong. I am wrong. I am sorry. Forgive me, please, Findekáno, I cannot bear your wrath." He bowed his head, now, unable to meet Fingon’s eye.

“I do like it. And I want those things—the words and the acts. But I do not only want them.” Fingon let out a slow breath. Russandol, unfortunately, was Russandol. And he had good reason to be upset with him, but how could stay truly angry when his cousin was in such clear distress? “There is nothing to forgive in those words. I’m upset about what you said after. And concerned by what you say now. You believed you’re owed a position of greater power? I am yours as you are mine, Russ. That’s what I have promised you. Please don’t make that be a lie. And worse still, don’t make some sort of sacrifice to give me what you think I want. The thought of forcing you into something is far more unpleasant than the thought of you wishing for a rather one-sided sex life.” Fingon’s voice changed to a pained sort of pleading, hoping against hope that he had misunderstood horribly. “But how could it never even occur to you? Did you never have a passing thought to want me within you? To want us to be together in every way? Why would you not want that?”

Maedhros dropped to his knees, sliding his hands down Fingon’s arms until he was clutching his hands. “Even though the thought did not cross my mind, please do not assume it did not stir me.” His gaze flashed up. “Findekáno, you must know that it was your words, and the thought of you inside me, that thought alone, of me yielding to you, it made me helpless with desire and entirely undid me. I—I cannot describe how—how greatly it affected me. My words after were uncouth and ill-mannered and did little justice to how in love I was with you in that moment.” He swallowed hard. “As for equality: you are still my junior by enough years that were certain Valar or elders of our people to discover our relationship I might be locked away. This is why we are waiting: precisely because we are not equal in years or maturity. This only was what I meant: but I was wrong to think it would matter when we are wed—as you say, as equals.”

“I will be your junior in the forge, or hunting, or in some craft you wish to teach me- but even now, I will not be your apprentice or your servant in the bedroom. I would have us equals as lovers from the beginning. There are some things neither of us may do yet, but during our betrothal I will not bow down to you because I see you as my master in this.” With that caveat out of the way, Fingon allowed his mouth to twist up in a half smile as he squeezed Maedhros’ hands. “Russ, I truly hate you. You make it entirely impossible for a person to stay mad at you. And I am still hurt by your words; that cannot be entirely undone so soon. But…” He tugged on Maedhros’ hands, pulling him up and leaning against him. “I do not wish to start the day upset with you. And I’m very glad my words clearly effected you as you said.” He wrapped his arms around Maedhros and they stood like that, half dressed and holding each other tightly. “I’m sorry I made you cry,” he muttered into Maedhros’ neck, his own eyes watering. “I love you.”

Maedhros was nodding eagerly, though still emotionally unsteady. “Of course I am your equal in this—in the bedroom, as you say—you might even be ahead of me, for I think your imagination is greater than mine in such matters. And—” he smiled nervously, though his eyes winked playfully: “and if you are still angry with me, I will accept whatever punishment you deem fit.” He wrapped his arms around Fingon and squeezed. “But until you enact my punishment, I will endeavor to make it up to you with a grand adventure today. Shall we go to breakfast?” He began to dress hurriedly.

Fingon bristled. “I—Manwë and Varda Russ, no!” And then, more firmly, “No.” He shook his head as Maedhros turned back to him. “I can’t—I… if we play that game, it needs to be just that—a game. Don’t ask me to connect it to this—to something so true, so raw. I love you, Russ. I do. But you hurt me, and that is very real—not something to joke about and use in bedroom play. Not something that will vanish with a game.” He took a small step backward, needing to put more distance between them. “If you had answered differently just now, if our conversation had not gone as it did, Valar help me, I would still be with you. And I don’t think you even realize how wrong that would be. I would still intend to wed you, for you are my life, Russ, and the other half of my fëa. But you could very easily have broken something in me. Something that even the Valar could not put right.”

Maedhros paused again, his shirt hanging half on him, still half off. “Fin—I—” He swallowed carefully, his chest constricted painfully, his heart a cold lump in his chest, his throat thick and useless. Of course. He was an idiot. It seemed easier to own that than to feel guilty about it, but that would not do, either. He had made a mistake, and tried to mask it with an equally callous gesture. Why did he only ever hurt the one he loved the most? And then Fingon’s words truly sank in: if he had not rescinded his beliefs, if he had admitted no fault, but clung firmly to what he as the spoiled prince felt entitled to (it made him sick to even think that he might ever have implied he was entitled to Fingon)—Fingon would still love him? That wasn’t—no—that seemed most wrong.

"Please don’t say that," he whispered, and tears flowed unbidden from his eyes, though the rest of his face was slack with a kind of resigned horror. "If I was—Findekáno, if I was truly as depraved as my earlier words and unenlightened assumptions made me seem, you have no business having anything to do with me!" And there were his words unlocked, but he was being overbearing again, Eru, what was wrong with him? “I mean—” he said immediately. “No. Wait. That’s not what I meant, either. I did not intend to tell you what you should—I just—” but he trailed off, because he cared about Fingon, and of course he did not want Fingon to be in love with anyone even related to the hypothetical monster Maedhros could possibly become, perhaps already was. Oh, help, Findekáno! he wanted to scream. Tell me what is right! But his pride wouldn’t allow it, so he turned away.

Fingon opened and closed his mouth for a moment, unable to speak. He stepped around Maedhros, crouching down in front of him to place himself before Maedhros’ downturned face. “Russ.” He sighed. “My Russ… I’m upset right now, and I think you are, too. But this is something we’re going to need to be able to sit down and discuss—I need that, Russ. Please. For me. I need to be able to talk this through with you, my love, my Fair One, my betrothed and beloved.”

Maedhros turned away again, tugging his shirt on fully and folding his arm, his shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, there—there’s nothing to discuss. I need to be lectured. You are entirely in the right and I am wholly wrong. And I am sorry. Just—” Don’t give up on me, he was going to say, but oh, how it would be better for Fingon if he gave up on him, so he did not finish. “Let me be ruled by you, Findekáno,” he said, and forced himself to meet Fingon’s eyen. “Not as part of any game, certainly not in jest. I would be ruled by you in this. We are not equals in this. You must teach me. I-if you would,” he added, losing his nerve and lowering his eyes again.

"I can’t—" Fingon paused. "Alright, alright. This is okay, Russ, we’re okay. I told you I could never leave you." He reached up to Maedhros, but stayed his hand before he touched him. "Alright. Can we sit down Russ? Can we take a break for a moment and sit on the edge of the bed and just talk? I cannot rule you, and I will not order you, but if you would allow it, I think we need to talk, now. Please?"

Maedhros nodded (aching for Fingon’s touch, but afraid to ask for it, more afraid to reach out and take it), went to the bed, and collapsed on it, still looking at the ground. He had to get a hold of himself: Fingon wasn’t going to tell him what he needed to hear if he was crying like a child. “Sorry,” he said again.

"No. I—Valar. I’m still upset with you. But I just want everything to be okay." Fingon sat next to Russ, drawing one leg up on the bed and letting the other dangle. If he shifted just slightly they would be touching. "Russandol, talk to me? I know you’ve always fixed things for me—every scraped knee from running or bruise from falling out of a tree, every time lessons didn’t go well and I was certain I’d never understand something, never apply a crafting technique correctly or complete an accurate rendering of something—and I know it’s probably my turn, but I cannot fix this on my own." He laughed, lightly, at the memories evoked. "For all that I want to be your equal I was never as strong as you, Beloved. Or as capable on my own. I need my best friend, my Russ. What do you need, melda? What do you want to start talking about?"

Maedhros thought carefully about this, pushing the rest of the world out. They would be late for breakfast but it didn’t matter. “I—I want you to be angry with me,” he said. He tried to sound defiant, but it came out only petulant. “I don’t want you to forgive me so easily for something that is almost unforgivable. And I want—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I need to stop telling you what I want you to do. But I don’t want to stop, because I love you.” His breath was coming in short, panicky gasps. “I want to protect you, because I—well, I thought I knew better. I don’t think I do.”

"How can I be angry with you when you’ve been crying?" Fingon reached out, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind Maedhros’ ear, fingers just barely kissing his face. His brow furrowed. "Could you be angry with me were our situation reversed? I don’t want you to tell me what to do, I don’t want an expectation of obedience, but I want you to talk to me. To advise me. I’ve always gone to you for help, and you have always been there for me. I want us to protect each other. To be partners. And I do value your protection.” He let out a soft sigh, head dropping so that he watched where their legs almost brushed.

Maedhros nodded, committing it to memory, and appalled that this did not come naturally to him. He could protect, instinctively—he could guide, mind, instruct, and care for those he loved—and he could obey, and dutifully and loyally follow others he loved and admired—but kindness was, apparently, a learned skill.

He had had it all wrong. Findekáno was his better. But Fingon, he guessed, would not like to hear that, so he did not say it. Instead: “Partners,” he repeated, and blinked away tears because it was simple and he was foolish. It would have been laughable if he was not so scared. He nodded eagerly, unable to say more as his throat tightened.

Fingon reached out to him again, his hand toying with the collar of Maedhros’ unlaced shirt. They both followed it as it moved downward, stopping at the ring that hung about his chest and cupping his hand over it protectively. “If it pleases thee,” he swore softly, “I am yours as you are mine. Tenn’ ambar-metta.” And Fingon realized in that moment that he wanted nothing more than to clasp Maedhros to himself and to cling to him without letting go.

Maedhros was surging with emotion and desperate with want. “Please,” he said. He was shaking as he hesitated, determined to get this next bit right. He wanted to kiss Fingon, so badly he could taste it, but to pounce upon him and take it was a violation, maybe, so he refrained. He almost said ‘Kiss me’—a demand, an order—which was also wrong. Ask. (You can ask for it, what kind of spoiled brat are you, you wouldn’t let Curvo get away with that). “May I k-kiss you? Please?”

Fingon nodded immediately. “Please,” he begged, reciprocating the plea in full. He leaned forward, allowing their legs to brush, moved his free hand to Maedhros’ shoulder, brushing his neck. His thumb rubbed softly along Maedhros’ collarbone as he locked eyes with his lover, his partner, his friend.

Everything seemed better when their lips touched: Maedhros felt finally forgiven, or at least hopefully that he could do what he needed to learn, to be better, and he stopped shaking quite so much, the tension running out from his shoulders (though his chest still felt too small for his lungs). He did not touch Fingon anywhere else, but the kiss was enough. He could live on this. He smiled, nervously, when they parted, eyes searching Fingon’s face carefully. “Thank you,” he breathed, going back for a peck.

"Anything," Fingon promised quietly. He accepted another kiss, then pulled back with a soft touch to Maedhros’ shoulder. He left his right hand holding his ring to Maedhros’ chest, however, connecting them and feeling Maedhros’ heartbeat and his breaths. “Russ, while we’re talking… “ Fingon hesitated, debating whether to continue with his train of thought. “I still don’t quite understand what you were saying before. It wasn’t just this last time—why do all your fantasies seem to involve hurting me? Hurting me, and then comforting me or bringing me pleasure, but there seems to be a theme. I… again, I have no problem with that sometimes. When you decided to see how quickly you could bring me to release a second time last night it was—“ he closed his eyes, remembering and searching for words, “—intense. Incredible. Someday I hope I can bring you such pleasure. Certainly I enjoyed watching you come undone from my words today—if I could have risen again so quickly I would have spent just watching you. But can you help me understand why, so far, you always seem to desire my pain or denial of pleasure, or at least why you immediately tend to go there in words?” He kept his hand firmly against Maedhros’ chest, moving his thumb in reassuring circles as he waited for an explanation.

"I thought you liked it!" Maedhros pointed out, feeling betrayed by Fingon’s reactions and by his own desires, and groaned and covered his face with both hands. "I—I got away with myself. I’m sorry. I did not mean—you know that—” and then all the breath went out of his lungs because maybe he had scared Fingon, maybe Fingon didn’t know. “Please, you must know I would never want to hurt you.”

Fingon let out a breath. That told him nothing, except that Maedhros truly did not know why his thoughts tended to go in those directions. “Alright. It’s alright. I know you won’t truly hurt me. I know.” He winced, slightly. “One more thing. I’m sorry, but if we can finish going through things I would greatly appreciate it. You told me to punish you, Russ.” Fingon shuddered. “I want us to respect one another. To talk. To yell if we have to, and to sort things out. But it is not your duty to physically beat or otherwise ‘punish’ me if I do something that displeases you, or the other way around if I am angry with you. I don’t think I can be comfortable with that, or with tying bedroom play to serious issues between us, and I’m asking you not to ask that of me. I was teasing when I knelt before you suggesting it was as an apology—it was an excuse to be on my knees before you. And I thought you knew that.” Color rose in his cheeks as he spoke. “But it was something I wanted to do for you—not an expectation for you to have of me. And to me that difference is important.”

Maedhros nodded, understanding the need for separation here. “Yes. You speak wisely, again. I only meant—” he faltered, but he held his chin up even if his throat constricted— “That I displeased you. It does not have to be—it would be better if it were not—ah, in bed—but I want to amend my wrongdoing.” He shrugged, trying to make it nothing. “Punishment is easy.” He huffed. “Easier than bearing your disappointment. I want it gone.” There he was, demanding again, but he hoped Fingon wouldn’t notice.

"We’ve learned that I cannot give you everything you want, or demand, however much I might wish to. I love you Russ, and we’ll be okay. We’ll be fantastic, even. But you shocked me, and as I said before, you hurt me. That won’t disappear immediately. It’s something I can forgive, but I do not know that it’s something I can forget. Especially when I’ve so long—it doesn’t matter. I’m still not comfortable with us punishing one another. I was angry; we talked it out. That is acceptable by me. And I’m sure you’ll punish yourself more than I ever could, but Russ—when you do that you’re hurting someone I love. Do you think you could take it easy on him, for me?” He smiled lopsidedly.

Argument and uncomfortable discussion appearing to be over, Fingon swung himself on the bed so that he was facing Maedhros, and slid forward, placing himself directly in Maedhros’ lap. Fingon reached out to him and clung to him. It was a position reminiscent of when he had been much younger, and Maedhros would pick him up and carry him, or set him in his lap and they would pick out a book and read. He tucked his head under Maedhros’ chin, slightly horrified at their argument, now that it was over, dreading that he had hurt Maedhros, and disturbed that, while fighting, they had mostly denied one another physical contact—something Maedhros had given him freely and eagerly since he was born. Something that meant as much to them as spoken words.

Maedhros nodded at Fingon’s explanation, but was determined not to go easy on anyone who hurt Fingon, whatever Fingon said. When Fingon crawled into his lap, however, and wrapped his thin arms around his middle, Maedhros could not help but return the gesture, pulling Fingon against him in a firm grip. A final wave of tears fell, but these were of relief, and he pressed them to Fingon’s hair. “Th-thank you for talking to me,” he said. “I’m sorry that I—I’ll try to be better,” he vowed. He pulled Fingon against him hard enough that he felt the rings on the chains around their necks press into his skin, and he kissed Fingon’s hair. “I—I love you.”

"Thank you for listening." Fingon squeezed him as hard as he could, as his own tears slid down his cheeks and onto Maedhros’ neck and chest. "And I’m sorry, too." He pressed closer, trying to touch as much of Maedhros as was physically possible. "Tyë melin, Russandol. My heart, my beloved, my future, my song." He straightened slightly, tucking his face into the side of Maedhros’ neck and breathing in his scent. His right hand wound through Maedhros’ hair. "I love thee."

"And I love thee," Maedhros responded. "Tyë melin, Finno." They were many moments like this, before he finished wiping his eyes. After a few tries and a careful breath: "Should we to breakfast? They will be waiting for us." But he did not let go.

"We should." Fingon nodded against him, then pulled back with a sigh. He cupped Maedhros’ face with both hands, watching him. "I’m sorry I got angry, but I’m glad we talked. I do love you, my Russandol. Forever." He leaned in to kiss Maedhros one more time, his entire being fighting against the idea of separating from Maedhros and playing cousins in front of the family.

Maedhros accepted the kiss as a starving man accepted a meal, and managed a smile as he stood together with Fingon. “I am glad you got angry, for I maintain that I was in the wrong.” He took a deep breath. “Thank you for talking to me, and for correcting me.” His eyes lingered on Fingon a moment longer before he turned to search for his leggings. “Where should we take Findaráto today?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Adventuring," Fingon said with a grin. "Across streams and through the deeps of the forest. Remember that ‘hidden’ clearing we found with the magnificent flowers? We should let him find it. We could even head out to some of the smaller caves in the northern hills. What do you think?" He changed the topic briefly before Maedhros could respond. "And I didn’t correct you, Russ. I jut pointed out something that bothered me, and you talked it over and adjusted your own view to address my concerns. I think that’s much better than me just ‘correcting’ you—you did as much as I. And perhaps my own view has changed a bit to take your perspective into account."

Maedhros nodded, but mainly because he was tired of arguing. “Fine, well. Thank you for calling my attention to it.” He sat on the bed to haul on his boots, and was silent. “I think he will really like the caves—” he said, going to the door. When he opened it, however, Finrod was waiting, hand poised to knock.

"Oh!" he said. "I was wondering when you were coming. Grandfather said you were fine but I’m hungry!" He paused. "Wait, what were you saying about caves, Maitimo?"

"He was wondering if you’d like to try to discover some," Fingon said, ruffling Finrod’s hair. "Hmm, you’ll have to leave a sign on the walls to shown that you’ve been there- that you discovered them. You can be Findaráto, Lord of Caves. Does that please you?" He pulled the door shut behind them as they made their way towards breakfast, a bouncing Finrod skipping between them.

Finrod ran through the door ahead of them, pace increasing as the smells from the dining hall reached him. Fingon slowed his pace, looking around quickly to ensure that no one was in the area. He grabbed Maedhros’ hand and linked it with his. Drawing it up, he placed a gentle kiss across its back, and squeezed it as he lowered their joined hands.

Maedhros sucked in a breath, unsure whether to feel guilty, nervous, or giddy about the kiss, but either way schooled his features to weary neutrality as they entered the dining hall. “I am sorry, Grandfather; sorry, Uncle: Findekáno and I were talking, and before we knew it, we were late.” He bowed slightly at the door, then planted a kiss on Galadriel’s fair hair before seating himself next to his grandfather, across from Finarfin.

“Apologies,” Fingon added with a nod, dropping into the empty seat next to Finrod.

“Where are the boys?” Maedhros asked, as there were two small dirty plates, but no Angrod or Aegnor.

“Angaráto and Aikanáro are already out riding their new ponies,” Finarfin said with a chuckle. “I could hardly keep them indoors.”

“Well, they’ll miss out, then. Do you have plans for the day, Uncle? We were thinking of heading north with Findaráto, in search of caverns and secret clearings.” He gave Finrod a wink as his young cousin made a sound of enthusiastic agreement.

Finarfin smiled warmly. “I was hoping to be in counsel with Atar today,” he said, “and was hoping you might look after my young ones.” He tickled his daughter’s chin, and she giggled while continuing to gum at a large piece of fruit. “That will be fine. The stable master is watching Angaráto and Aikanáro. And Artanis can stay with me if you wish to go exploring.”

Maedhros shook his head. “We have the child pack here, don’t we, Grandfather?” he checked. “She is big enough for it now, I think, so she could come with us. If that’s all right.”

"Ugh, she’ll slow you down, Nelyo!" Finrod complained.

“It’ll be alright, Findo. Russandol’s fast, but if he can’t keep up with you we’ll just have to trudge ahead and clear the path. Would you be willing to help me blaze a new trail under branch and leaf?”

“I guess.” Finrod sounded slightly hopeful, though even the position of trailblazer did not make up for having the baby tag along on his adventure.

“Grandfather, how are you this morn?” Fingon asked with a smile, turning and looking past Maedhros at Finwë. His heart still glowed at the memory of Finwë’s words, hugs, and wholehearted acceptance from the night before.

"I am well, young Findekáno," Finwë replied. "And you—how did you sleep, having to share a bed with Nelyo?"

Maedhros stiffened, panicking less at Finwë’s words and more at the secret smile that lit his eyes.

"Finno snores," he cut in, before he could get too embarrassed.

“Funny, how you’re the only one who makes that claim.” Finrod giggled at Fingon’s reply. “I slept well, Grandfather. We had a busy day yesterday, and Russ quite wore me out.”

Maedhros nearly choked on his tea, but managed to disguise it (shallowly, admittedly) with a scornful laugh.

Finwë, meanwhile, was glowing. “I heard some shouting this morning?” he asked Fingon, though he was eyeing (teasing) Maedhros, and he knew it. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, everything’s is well. I do love my cousin, though sometimes it seems like when we’re together things become quite hard. This morning things were getting rather… heated, but I managed to cool Russ off—“

“Yeah!” Finrod interrupted. “And Maitimo rolled over on him and Findekáno dumped a pitcher of ice water down his back!” Fingon lifted a shoulder at Finwë in a, ‘what was I supposed to tell him?’ gesture. He was slightly afraid to look at Maedhros.

"Eyyy, Finno!" Finwë laughed, "Nicely done!" He raised his glass to Fingon in congratulations, though Maedhros suspected he was not actually congratulating him for any pitcher of water. His face turned red enough that even little Galadriel stopped gnawing on her fruit to giggle at him.

“As you say, Grandfather.” Fingon smiled, thinking back on that part of their morning—that is what he wanted to go back to with Maedhros. And, since Finwë seemed to be encouraging him, “It was a perfect score.”

“Careful, grandchild. These things have a way of coming back to you, and I’m certain Russandol is itching to even the score.” Tilting his head subtly so that no one but Fingon (and possibly Finrod) had a view of his eye, Finwë winked at him.

“Indeed not,” Fingon replied, laughing.

Maedhros groaned audibly. “Oh, you conspire together to shame me!” he finally said. “At any rate, I would not dare retaliate against my dear cousin for such a minor slight. He was in the right, of course.” Maedhros helped himself to a bowl of fruit and toast, carefully not looking at anyone, though Grandfather seemed determined to catch his eye. The blush lingered on his cheek.

“Nelyo, do not forget that there is pleasure in the game as much as in… how did my grandchild put it? ‘A perfect score.’ You may wind up disappointing if you fail to match that score in some mind-blowing fashion.”

Fingon almost choked this time, grabbing his water glass and raising it in a mock toast to his grandfather. “You know me too well, my King, and read my heart as an open book. But truly, even with naught but my cousin’s presence I am happier and Aman seems to grow brighter about me.”

“Though all that I said is true.”

“Though all that you said is most certainly true.”

Maedhros smiled down at his tea, gaining the courage to lift his eyes again to the assembly. He slid his leg out until it brushed against Fingon’s and rested there companionably. “I hear you, grandfather. I will do my best.”

Fingon’s smile lit his eyes completely, and he pressed back against Maedhros’ leg slightly—companionably, playfully. “That’s all anyone can ever ask,” Fingon added lightly.

“As you say, Findekáno,” Finwë added, a touch seriously. “But ensure you know what someone’s best is before applying that adage. From my firstborn grandson, for example, I would expect great things.”

Maedhros snorted and poked at his plate shyly again. “My great feat for today, then, will be carrying Artanis up to the caverns with us. Would you like that, Artanis?” he cooed across the table at her, causing her to squeal animatedly and raise her hands high, fruit splatting onto her forehead.

Her father laughed as he cleaned her up. “Are you sure that will be all right, Nelyo?” Finarfin asked.

Maedhros nodded. “Well, I might ask her brother, first. Is it all right if your sister comes along, Ingoldo?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t sound so glum, Findaráto.” Fingon ruffled his hair. “The two of us will go on an adventure if need be. I’m not that bad, right? I mean, you offered up half your room to me.” Fingon slid his calf up Maedhros’ as he spoke, playfully encouraging contact and, for the moment, hoping that things were going back to normal between them—or to how they were before, but with slightly better understandings of one another.

Maedhros stiffened slightly as Fingon’s leg crept up his, but as Fingon stopped well before uncomfortable territory, he did not retract his leg. He looked at Finrod though, because that was easier: “You both seem to think I won’t be able to keep up with you with a child on my back.” And then he grinned: “Remember, cousins, that my legs are longer,” he said, hoping Finwë at least would appreciate that.

Fingon snorted lightly, shifting one hand under the table to squeeze Maedhros’ thigh. “You never let us forget it,” he groused, then winked at Finrod. “What do you say? I guess we can still let him come with us.”

Finrod turned up his nose as if in distaste, but nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. We need him to carry the heavy things,” he said practically.

Maedhros laughed, but Finarfin spoke up: “Now you’ll carry your own weight, Findaráto Ingoldo,” he said sternly. “And mind Maitimo and Findekáno while you’re with them.”

"Yes, Adaaaaaa," Finrod said, sounding weary, as he returned to eating his fruit.

"Well, first," Maedhros said, standing to reach across the table: "More carbs, both of you. I don’t want you fainting halfway up the mountain." He put a boiled egg and cheese pastry on each of their plates. "I’m not going to carry all of you up the mountain."

“Are you calling me fat, Russ?” Fingon asked indignantly. Maedhros paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, and Fingon took the opportunity to add an extra pastry to Maedhros’ plate.

“You know, you should be eating more as well since you’re eating to carry two.” Finarfin wondered if that was the correct phrase, recalling a similar conversation during his wife’s pregnancy. He shook his head, determined to ignore the teasing going around the table.

Maedhros and Fingon, however, met each other’s eyes and tried not to laugh, but Finwë, as usual, started it. “Valar, Arafinwë, Nelyo is going to be with a child, not with child—unless there is something you are not telling us, Nelyo!” And with that, Fingon laughed, and then Maedhros, and then Finrod, though he did not quite understand the joke.

"Very funny, very funny, Atar," Finarfin said, waving his hand and trying not to laugh himself. "You know what I meant, anyway. My, you’re giggly today, Ata," he said: "This isn’t meant to be a bachelor’s weekend, even if Amil and Anairë are visiting Eärwen."

"You’re right," Finwë said, wiping his eyes from laughter: "We are only incidentally alone: The girls are having a bachelorette weekend. Nerdanel is even with them, I think—”

Maedhros nodded, confirming this. “I think they are planning something,” he said sagely.

“Well, we should be safely ensconced in the depths of the forest—hopefully whatever they’re doing, should it extend to Grandfather’s house, will fail to reach we the intrepid explorers, the dauntless wanderers, the—who has a good name for us? Anyone? Not you, Artanis,” he pointed to the baby, and said in an exaggerated whisper to Finrod, “You can’t trust a word that comes out of her mouth at that age. Anyhow, it shall fail to reach our newly discovered lands.”

Maedhros laughed as he finished his breakfast and started on the extra Fingon had snuck on his plate.

"Oh, uhh, the ah—Finwanderers!" Finrod exclaimed. "The eldest and most attractive grandsons of High King Finwë!"

Finwë snorted. Loudly. And to Finarfin’s disgruntlement did not look even slightly bothered by that fact, or by Finrod’s comment. “Well, Findekáno, does that work for you? Nelyo, since you spend much time among my grandchildren, would you care to comment on Ingoldo’s epithet?”

Fingon laughed. “It works for me—I need you around more often Finderato—you’re an excellent namer. Russ?”

"Perhaps not his most attractive grandsons,” Maedhros insisted diplomatically. “Certainly Tyelko would resent the comment. But we are the eldest, and I grant you this bestows on us a certain importance.” He winked. “But what about Artanis? She is coming with us, too.”

"She will be our mascot!" Finrod piped up, without missing a beat.

Finwë laughed, slapping the table, and in the commotion Maedhros laid his hand over Fingon’s, which rested on his knee and which he had quite forgotten about (the touch seemed so natural).

“If you picked the mascot, does that mean you’re volunteering to carry her?” Fingon teased, and he laughed at Finrod’s exclamation of denial, raising his hands in surrender and leaning back to hide half behind Maedhros. “I guess we’re stuck carrying her,” Fingon muttered to his cousin, eyes dancing. “So close! If he was but a little older I might have gotten away with it, too!”


	9. Chapter 9

"Whoa, Findaráto, slow down!" Maedhros called, taking up the rear of their party with Galadriel strapped safely to his chest, facing forward. He had a staff to steady him, as the terrain was rocky, but his eager climbers, Fingon and Finrod, didn’t seem bothered. "If you get hurt I get in trouble and—Artanis, sweaty hair is not for eating!” he said, pulling his braids back out of the girl’s reach for the third time.

"We’ll pin your hair up next time," Fingon suggested as he paused and waited for the lagging party members to catch up. He grinned at the sight of Maedhros walking up, one hand cradling Galadriel where she was bundled against him. "We’re almost to the caves," he added quietly. "Should we break first for a snack and to settle down? I’m half afraid we’ll lose Ingoldo as soon as we enter them!"

Maedhros chuckled. “You’re just going easy on me,” he said with a grin, and touched Fingon’s cheek tenderly while Finrod was well ahead. “Yes, please,” he decided, and shouted up at his younger cousin. “Findo! Come on, let’s eat before we get to the caves—there’s a nice patch of shade here,” he said, “and we have sandwiches.” There was a pause from above, and then the clatter of rocks as he galloped down to join them. “Help me with the pack, Finno?”

"Of course." Fingon’s fingers brushed against his betrothed’s shoulders and back as he removed the pack, and he found himself absurdly grateful for his younger cousins’ presence. Hiking was peaceful and, although he knew he and Maedhros would likely continue the morning’s talk later, Finrod’s presence granted them a reprieve, and let them be close without worrying about the events that had taken place a few hours back. He soaked up his betrothed’s presence and his every smile, and found himself leaning towards him without thinking about it. He wanted to wrap his arms around Maedhros and pull him closer, hold him as if he planned to never let go. He took a deep breath and instead started to unwrap their sandwiches.

Maedhros felt Fingon’s slight distance from him, and at first it made him indignant—even angry—but it also made him sad and desperate, especially since he deserved it. He couldn’t do anything about it here, though, and he helped Artanis drink some water before handing the water to Finrod as he bounded up. “Did you see the cave?” he asked.

"Yeah! It’s not much further!" Finrod said, gulping water.

"Sandwiches first," Fingon said, leaning forward to ruffle his cousin’s golden head of hair. "Full explorers get farther than hungry ones before they have to turn back."

Finrod nodded agreeably, ducking under Fingon’s hand and snatching the sandwich he’d been about to bite into before scampering back.

"You know, sometimes I think your family is huge and awesome," Fingon told Maedhros. "And then there are times like this when I wonder how you survived six younger brothers! How did you not starve? How did your head not explode?”

Finrod squawked in complaint and hastily gestured at the pile of unclaimed sandwiches to protest the starving insinuation.

Maedhros laughed and handed Fingon another sandwich. Meanwhile he tore off bite-sized chunks for Galadriel in his lap, and only then did he find a snack for himself. “Oh, it’s not so bad. They’re a lot of fun, really. And so far my brothers turn into recluses or vagabonds when they hit those pesky tween ages, so I rarely have to deal with them.” He smiled at Finrod. “But I should be so lucky. Findo’s a good kid, aren’t you?”

"I was only joking about the sandwich," Finrod replied, as this compliment apparently made him feel guilty. "You want it back, Finno? I only took one bite out, I’m sorry."

“He’s the best kid,” Fingon agreed, shaking his head with a smile. “It’s yours, ‘Goldo. I’m sorry; I was only joking. You really are a good kid and a great older brother. Just watch out for this one,” he added with a glance at Galadriel who was playing with a handful of Maedhros’ hair again. “If you don’t, you’ll end up wrapped around her finger, just like Maitimo is.” He ate the sandwich Maedhros had given him quickly and took a long drink from his waterskin. “Do you want me to take Nerwen while you eat, Russandol? I can hold her for a while.”

"Sure, if you don’t mind," Maedhros said, smiling gratefully, for the relief would ease his back and allow him to eat. "Make sure she has some water, too," he said, as he drank some of his own. "You, too, Findo: stay hydrated! We’re almost at the cave, and it’ll be cooler in there, but we still need to be drinking plenty of water!"

"I know, Russandol," Finrod said affectionately, and moved closer to sit with them. "How did you find these caves?" he asked.

“We used to go on all sorts of adventures,” Fingon told him when Maedhros’ answer consisted of a nod in his direction. “We knew the woods around grandfather’s house as well as his halls, and we explored much of the land between our fathers’ houses.” He smiled fondly at his betrothed. “Our Russandol was very patient with me and very kind. He agreed to travel every which way throughout my childhood, setting forth on missions and quests and mapmaking ventures that are among my favorite memories today.”

They were good times, Fingon thought, lips still curled in a small smile. Maedhros had been ever gentle and unbelievably patient. While Fingon was still a youth his cousin had started to treat him as an equal in many respects, a traveling companion and friend rather than as a child he was minding. Equals, he thought, then shook off the thought and stood. “Are we ready to venture on, exploring the dark depths of the caverns and bringing light to the darkness? Russandol, have you the crystals? Ingoldo, are you ready to lead our quest? Nerwen, are you ready to cheer your brother on as he guides us forward?”

Maedhros smiled gratefully at Fingon, reliving the fond memory with him. Fingon had always been so grown up and so wonderful, that it seemed his body only had to catch up. And now that it had—oh, he ached for—but he shook himself. “Here, let’s get you wrapped up again,” Maedhros said, taking Galadriel and setting her in her harness, brushing crumbs off her dress. He stood, easing the thankfully lighter pack onto his shoulders, picked up his walking stick, and laid a hand on Fingon’s back. “Thanks for watching Findo,” he whispered. “I love you. And I’ll be right behind you.”

“He’s family,” Fingon answered softly. “It reminds me a little of when my brother was younger. And Irissë of course, though she was a wild thing.” He smiled, and, as Finrod began to lead them forth, he turned and brushed a kiss against Maedhros’ cheek. Just before Fingon ran to catch up with Finrod, Maedhros heard the words “I love you” spoken so softly they might have been mistaken for the sighing of the wind.

"I love you," Maedhros said again, but Fingon was already far ahead of him, and Finrod much further ahead than that. They were at the cave soon, but Maedhros made them wait until their eyes adjusted to the dark before going on. He knew the cave was safe for the first hour at least, but that was when Fingon had been smaller and his legs shorter. He chuckled fondly at the memory.

Fingon’s eyes danced, realizing what Maedhros had been thinking of. He stepped closer for a moment and squeezed their hands together as he would have done when he was younger and ready to start physically pulling Maedhros ahead to continue their adventure. His hand, though still smaller than his cousin’s, fit more fully against it and linking their fingers together felt natural, felt right.

"Now, please?" Finrod called from up ahead. "I can see now; can we keep going? Or we could pull out one of the crystals to light our way."

Fingon was grown up, now, Maedhros realized. He was an equal, else he had no business claiming to love him. In the dark, he squeezed his hand back, until Finrod proclaimed he could see and they hastily let go. “Yes, half a moment,” he said, turning around. “Finno, will you get the crystals out? I want everyone to have one clipped to their belt, please. And does everyone still have water?” It was only a small expedition, but Maedhros liked to be prepared.

"We do," Finrod promised. "Please hurry, Findekáno!"

Fingon retrieved the crystals from Maedhros’ pack and attached one to Finrod’s belt before doing the same to himself and his betrothed. After half a moment’s pause he attached the fourth to a ribbon and slipped it over Galadriel’s neck.

"May we go now? Please?" Finrod was rocking on the balls of his feet, energetic and unable to contain his enthusiasm.

"I think we’re ready," Fingon said after he had checked his own waterskin. "Lead on, young adventurer!"

"Tell us what you see!" Maedhros asked, taking the light crystal out of Galadriel’s mouth and beaming up at Fingon. He knew the cave well enough, but wanted Finrod to feel as if he were exploring it anew.

"Well, nothing yet—I’m not sure which way to go!" Finrod whined, then: "Oh, wait! This way! There’s a passage down here!" he cried, skipping ahead.

"Careful," Fingon called after him. "The floor isn’t always even, and holes hide themselves in shadow." He shook his head at himself, recalling Maedhros using the same words years earlier.

They continued deeper, the ground slanting as the cave system dug deeper into the ground. The faint echoes of falling drops of water could be heard in the distance, and eventually the small channel they passed through opened into a larger series of chambers.

"Hey, you’re stealing my line," Maedhros teased as they piled up on each other when Finrod paused to determine which way to continue. "Uh oh," he said aloud. "Are we lost?"

"No!” Finrod was quick to say, looking closer. "Ah! This way!"

The water was getting louder, and when Finrod entered the next chamber and held his crystal aloft he could see perfect reflections in pools of water. One, to the side of the chamber, was marred by ripples spreading across its surface as water dropped from a crack in the ceiling in a steady cadence of drips.

“It’s just as beautiful as I remembered,” Fingon murmured Maedhros as he stepped forward, raising his own crystal high to extend their view.

Maedhros smiled as Finrod jumped around in excitement. “Wow! Look at all the crystals, Nelyo! Finno, look! They glow almost without the light we bring! Can you believe it?” His excitement was contagious, and had them both grinning, and even little Galadriel shrieked and clapped her hands.

"They’re very beautiful," Fingon agreed. "Shall we visit the next cavern? Keep your eyes peeled—if something’s broken off naturally, perhaps you might like to take it back with you and your atar can help you make a necklace for it."

Finrod nodded, going much slower now as he searched more thoroughly. Maedhros flashed Fingon a grateful smile and squeezed his hand before they caught up. Maedhros found his mind wandering to what Fingon would look like dressed in nothing but crystals, adorned like this beautiful cave, shimmering and reflecting so much light it seemed like he glowed with an inner light. Very quickly he decided that he should do better to entertain that thought while not in the company of others, and returned to the present just as Finrod discovered the really big cavern.

"Nelyo! Findekáno look!” Finrod jolted as his voice echoed through the cavern.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?" Fingon murmured. He held his crystal aloft again, and they could see stalactites and stalagmites going forward until the light faded completely. The ceiling was mirrored in places in vast pools of water, their depths hidden by perfect reflections of the stone formations above.

"It is lovely," Maedhros said, and he could hold Fingon’s hand because Finrod was ignoring them completely in favor of splashing about in pools and observing each crystal under light and without it—and that took a while, for there were many. As the hours drew on Maedhros made Finrod drink some water and have a sandwich, and he changed Galadriel’s diaper once before he knew they had to head back or else be caught going down the mountain in the dark. "Come on, Findo. Don’t you want to tell grandfather about what we found?" Grandfather had seen the caves and heard about them plenty of times—having gone through this with his own sons as well as with his grandchildren. But he always seemed to like hearing it.

"We can come back sometime, right?" Finrod half-asked, half-begged. He held a chunk of crystal tightly in his hand as he ran back to the others, hugging Maedhros and then Fingon tightly.

"Of course," Fingon promised quickly. "We wouldn’t ask you to stay away forever. And you need to get to know these caves so that in a few years you can be the one leading Nerwen on an expedition through them!"

"Next time we’re all up here together, we’ll come back, promise," Maedhros said, ruffling Finrod’s hair as he took one last wistful look at the great cavern. They made their way out of the cave and down the mountain in good time, before Laurelin had waned fully. Finwë welcomed them with smiles and embraces, and sent them off to wash before supper.


	10. Chapter 10

Fingon and Maedhros stood with their grandfather, watching their uncle and cousins ride off. It was already turning dark, but Finarfin was determined to set off, and to get the first few hours of the journey underway while the children were tired and placid. Fingon stretched, back cracking. “Well, I think Finrod’s found a new love. I’m not sure impressed his parents will be about it—he was telling us about all the valleys and forested areas near Finarfin’s home that he might go searching for caves in.”

Finwë chuckled, clapping them each on a shoulder. “I am sure my son will always be proud of his son. All of my grandchildren are so wonderful—how could he not be?” He paused, squeezing the back of Maedhros’ neck. “I am sorry we teased you this morning, Maitimo. I do not need to hear the details but I could guess that you enjoyed yourselves.” He laughed again, and Maedhros eyed him sidelong. “At any rate: it is late, and I am going to bed.”

“Grandfather?”

Finwë paused at Fingon’s call.

“Thank you, again. For everything.” Finwë nodded with a genuinely pleased smile and continued inside.

They stood a moment longer, enjoying the birdsong as the sky darkened. Fingon leaned his head on Maedhros’ shoulder. “Did you have a good day, Russ? I truly don’t think we could have made Findaráto happier, and even Artanis seemed to enjoy the fresh air.”

Maedhros smiled, wrapping an arm around Fingon (he would have used both but they were still outside where others could see). “I did, Fin,” he said, sighing contentedly. “Artanis was a perfect angel, and Findaráto was a trooper. You were very good with him: I almost began to wish you were my big brother.”

Fingon smiled at the complement. “Thank you, though I’m not sure that would work—you’ve played such a large role in who I am today. I cannot imagine growing up without you.” He felt Maedhros squeeze him and turned his head slightly to look at his cousin. “Are you about ready to head in, melda?”

Maedhros took a careful breath, and licked his lips, glancing nervously at Fingon. “Yes, I think so. I—Finno—about this morning—” he began, almost hating to bring it up, but it had been eating at him all day. “I am sorry. Again.” He slumped, slightly, feelings of disappointment weighing on him. “Uh. Perhaps we should go inside first. Sorry.”

Fingon turned his head as he lifted it, dropping a quick kiss on Maedhros’ shoulder. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, though I apologize for my regrettable behavior. It was uncouth and uncalled for.” He sighed. “But, as you said, we should head in. After you, my prince.”

Back in their room, Maedhros shut the door, locked it, and lit the candles with ritual precision before wheeling back on Fingon. “Your behavior was without blame, Findekáno,” he said. “It is I who is to blame. Now I must impose upon you further to answer me a few things, if you would. And—ah—” he kicked at the ground. “I do not need to stay the night, if you prefer. There is room next door where I might sleep. I do not desire to be without you this night, for my part, only I do not wish to upset you again.”

Fingon took a long slow breath, then another, and another before trying to answer. “My concerns were genuine, but I should not have brought them up in that way. I lashed out, and I should be better than that. I know this, even if your belief in me is a soothing balm for my own guilt.” He sat on the bed, unlacing his boots as he watched Maedhros fidget. “I was the one who insisted on talking things out—I would gladly hear what you wish to say. And in answer to your last question…do you remember what I begged of you once? The only thing I’ve ever truly begged for, was that you not send me away. I want you with me, Russ. Unless you desire otherwise, please stay.”

Maedhros moved to kneel at Fingon’s feet, helping him off with his heavy, mud-caked boots. “I feel incomplete every second I am without you, Findekáno,” he reminded his cousin. “I would a thousand times rather sleep at the foot of your bed in the face of your wrath than sleep next door.” He smiled tentatively. “So thank you. Now.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I—I wonder if I might—ask. I am confused. When you, last night, you apologized by kneeling before me.” He was still kneeling, so he got up, moving to sit beside Fingon on the bed. “Why was my request—though I am embarrassed of it now—for punishment this morning so different?”

“Please don’t be scared of me,” Fingon whispered. “Please don’t be scared to talk to me.” He took Maedhros’ hand both his own, clasping in securely. “I…perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to call it an apology. That was my error, but—“ He paused, trying to find the right words. “After you told me to pleasure you but to deny myself, you complained that my actions were ruining your plan. I understood that you were not truly upset with me, even if you were teasing me about it. Afterwards I saw you by the window, and…I wanted to get on my knees for you.” Color rose in his cheeks. “The night was perfect, starlight fell upon the floor, and…I wanted that. I wanted to give you that. I wanted you to give me that. The ‘apology’ was more a ruse, a reason for me to be there. And I thought we both understood that the apology was no more real than the reason for it. Apologizing was as real as your displeasure at our earlier activities was. I—does that even make sense?”

“Oh,” Maedhros said, clasping Fingon’s hands with his, but not looking up. He nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. Thank you. I am sorry that I—I did not understand. I am sorry again that I tried to make light of the hurt I caused you. It was callous and—well, I am sorry.” He chewed on his lip, trying to decide how he would word his next question—if he even wanted to go there at all tonight.

“Melda, it’s fine. It’s over. That wasn’t really what I was angry about—I was upset about your comments regarding me making love to you, and everything else…got rolled in. I should have just told you I was uncomfortable and you would have respected that—I know that.” Fingon looked at Maedhros, who still appeared hesitant. “What else, Russ? What’s bothering you?”

“I would have, yes. Ah. The next bit—” he huffed, slightly, as angry as he was going to get about this: “is in this theme. I need you to tell me. Please. What you want. When you want it. You are your own elf and until we are bonded I cannot know your thoughts or desires. I can try to guess, and I can try to anticipate them but—” he was breathing harshly now. He had to stop, so he paused, took a careful breath, and let it out. “I am not sure what you want from me. And this makes me afraid.”

Fingon turned into Maedhros, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, as though he could reassure him by the strength of his hold alone. He pulled back to face his cousin before speaking. “I—everything, Russ. I want to sit looking at the stars while sipping hot chocolate wrapped in your arms. I want to make love with you slowly and in a ridiculously besotted manner, and tend to your skin and hair during a long, hot bath. And I want to be on my knees while you grab my head and take my mouth roughly.” He slid his hands down Maedhros’ arms, taking his hands and gently placing him so that they grasped his waist. “Your description of controlling me as I rode you did almost as much for me as my dream of taking you for the first time did to you.” He looked at Maedhros. “I just…I just want reassurance that you want those kinds of things, too. You spoke before of me having to grapple with you once we are wed to take any kind of control—that would be something fun to do—as a game—but I don’t want our love life to be dependent on one of us physically besting the other. Before you made me spend a second time last night, you explained what you wanted and asked before you started something that was going to be a bit rough and overstimulating. That was perfect.” He paused before finishing. “May I ask you the same question, Russ? What do you want?”

Maedhros nodded throughout Fingon’s list. He wanted to be embarrassed by his words and actions, but Fingon did not seem to be, so he supposed he wasn’t, much. But Fingon was clear now, and oh so kind (he did not deserve him!), and Maedhros’ head was now not clouded with lust. That was the problem, he decided. That, and the fact that (which he could hardly help, to be fair) he too late considered with any clarity and logic the nature of their roles. He was so engrossed in these thoughts that it took him a few moments before he realized Fingon wanted an answer: "I want to make you happy,” he said, voice gravelly with desperation. But before Fingon could be disappointed in this answer, he raised his eyes: “I swear to you. My chief desire will ever be to ensure your happiness. If your heart is glad, so mine will be. Please believe that I am not just saying this to mitigate your wrath from this morning. I have desires beyond this, but know that this will always be first.” He set his jaw, unwilling to be gainsaid.

“Then we’ve come to a bit of a paradox.” Fingon smiled softly, because even when Maedhros wasn’t answering, he did so in a way that Fingon could hardly complain about. Fëanorian linguistics at work. “When we went to the valley under the Maitimoronti, my first thought was of your happiness, and of getting you to relax. And when we came together the first time…I admit I was focused on you at least as much as on myself, and I took the greatest pleasure from pleasing you.” He shook his head. “So we both want to please the other. I suppose that’s where we’re left. I do want to hear your fantasies, your dreams and daydreams and imaginings. I want to bring them to life for you, Russ. I want us to bring them to life together. You said you want to make me happy—but in truth just being with you does that. Being held close in your arms is more than I thought I would have, and something I never want to lose.”

“Then—” Maedhros said, swallowing past the almost-lump in his throat, smiling at Fingon’s kindness and beauty, “then we should do that tonight. May I just—hold you?” Another time he could discuss his baser desires, things that hardly mattered until they were bonded fully: now he yet felt unclean about them and unworthy of them (and confused about them, as what Fingon had introduced him to was yet novel if desirable) and maybe just holding Fingon would make him feel better about this.

“I want nothing more—no, wait, that’s not entirely true.” He squeezed Maedhros’ hand. “We’re filthy, Russ. And muddy, and sweaty, and I’m pretty sure I have at least three kinds of tree stuck in my hair.” He looked at Maedhros playfully. “I vote we get out of these clothes, and either have a quick wash with a basin or fill up the tub in the washroom. And after that we climb into bed and hold one another until we’re forced to rise for breakfast. Would that be acceptable?”

Maedhros smiled, shakily. “Yes. Please,” he said, and hugged Fingon. “I would like to take a bath with you—if you want? If you think we can fit. And—and I could braid your hair. If you want.” He was feeling better already as he pulled Fingon to his feet.

“Please. That sounds perfect, Russ. If it pleases you.” Fingon allowed Maedhros to pull him to his feet, continuing his forward movement until he was standing securely wrapped in Maedhros’ arms. “I love thee,” he whispered into his cousin’s chest. “I love you so much, Russ. Thank you for putting up with me and for being here. Thank you for being you.”

“Me? Putting up with you?” Maedhros repeated, laughing. “I think you are confused, Findekáno.” He pulled Fingon gently to the water closet, and turned a tap to run a bath. While the water ran Maedhros gazed fondly at his cousin, and touched him repeatedly: gentle, chaste brushes of skin that still meant the world to him. “May I undress you, Findekáno?” he asked, fingers hovering over buttons.

Fingon nodded, letting his arms fall to his sides and letting Maedhros control their actions. He smiled fondly at his cousin. “After you finish, may I do the same for you?” He leaned into the gentle hands unlacing his garments and letting them fall, eyes following his lover as he moved.

Maedhros almost faltered, awed that Fingon would give him this control even after what happened, but he pressed on, setting his jaw. It was more efficient and less sexy than he wanted it to be, but soon Fingon stood undressed before him. “You scraped your arm here,” he noticed with a frown, wetting a cloth in hot water to clean it before he remembered: “Oh. My turn. Uh. Your turn?” he wasn’t sure how to phrase it, but he stood still and straight, as if at attention, waiting.

“If you’ll let me,” Fingon reiterated. He traced his hands down Maedhros’ neck and over his shoulders, not removing clothing yet—just brushing along his clothed form, hoping he would relax slightly. He raised his hands again to unlace Maedhros’ tunic, carefully separating the fabric, and as he slowly pushed it of his shoulders and down his arms, he lowered his head, pressing gentle, careful kisses to the revealed skin. He pressed his forehead against Maedhros’ chest as he lowered his hands, unlacing his pants and allowing them to slide to the floor. Maedhros stepped out of the pants and Fingon stepped back, eyes skimming across acres of tanned, toned skin.

Maedhros took in a deep breath and breathed out slowly, relaxing as Fingon touched him. “I will always let you,” he promised, trying to catch Fingon’s eye. He smiled shyly, reaching out to graze his knuckles against Fingon’s arm. “We should rinse off before we get in the bath.”

“Mhmm.” Fingon nodded, content to allow Maedhros to lead them, and hoping to begin showing Maedhros- even in such insignificant ways- that he was content to let him guide them. “The tub is almost full—shall I turn on the shower?” He moved across the room, turning on the water and stepping in immediately, shuddering at the icy flow that first came through and roughly scrubbing at himself to remove caked blood and sweat.

“Wait, um—” Maedhros said as red marks appeared on Fingon’s skin, stepping behind him. “May I?” he asked, waiting for Fingon’s nod before taking the cloth and running it over Fingon’s back and shoulders. The drops of water clung to his hair like so many diamonds, and Maedhros dared to smile.

Fingon let out a soft sound, relishing Maedhros’ hands on him and the simple pleasure of beginning to feel clean. “That feels wonderful, Russ. I can’t believe how ridiculously muddy that was—I feel like I’m shedding a full layer of skin. A disgusting, dirt and sweat layer.” He shuddered lightly. “Can you help me with my plaits? My hair probably needs to be rinsed out as well, before it soils our bath.”

Maedhros nodded, pulling Fingon against him so they were still touching when he reached up to detangle the braids. Fingon’s hair poofed out before the water flattened it. “I like—your hair looks so beautiful when it is slick and wet,” he commented.

Fingon blushed. “Not as beautiful as yours, melda.” He tugged gently on one of Maedhros’ locks. “You looked like one of the Ainur the last time we swam together, rising from the water like an ancient power of Arda crowned in light and emanating power and beauty. I have always thought you handsome, but in that moment I stood entranced.” He laughed. “Well, swam entranced, I suppose, to be accurate. May I rinse you off, beloved, so that we can bathe?”

Maedhros looked down, flushing slightly, and nodded. “Please,” he said. "Ahh, where—" he was too tall, so he dropped to one knee, closing his eyes against the water falling over his head and shoulders.

A sharp inhale, and then Fingon grabbed the cloth and gently began working to over Maedhros skin. “Valar, Russ. You have no idea what you do to me.” Maedhros’ hair—for his own pleasure—he worked through with his bare hands, separating caught twigs and leaves, and giving it a brief wash. After scrubbing down Maedhros shoulders and back he bid his cousin stand and sank to his own knees to scrub clinging mud from his calves before pronouncing Maedhros clean (enough).

Maedhros was watching Fingon with a bemused expression, and helped him to his feet. “What I do to you?” he parroted. “I am innocent, I tell you.” He pulled Fingon over to the tub before— “Oh, damn!” he swore, spinning the handles. “I overfilled it. We’re going to make a mess,” he said, but he did not sound sorry as he stepped into the bath.

Fingon threw his head back, laughing long and loud and with true pleasure. “And why don’t I believe you care in the slightest?” He slid in after Maedhros, sinking into the water with a grateful sigh. “This is a bit smaller than the last time, cousin. You don’t mind if I stay a bit closer, right?” He sat between Maedhros legs, leaning back on him and immediately tilting his head back to rest on his cousin’s shoulder. “This is nice.”

“No, no I don’t mind,” Maedhros mumured, closing his eyes and leaning back. “I love it. I love you.” He breathed deep, Fingon’s head rising and falling on his chest. The weight was familiar now, from Galadriel bound to his chest all day, and it was comforting. The silence between them was comfortable, and in it, Maedhros replayed the previous night over in his head—and the morning, at least until— But he forced himself through it, reminding himself what he had done wrong. Now he was chewing the inside of his cheek nervously, but he could think of nothing else, so, “I cannot imagine what we would do without grandfather’s kindness.”

“He is…the greatest blessing to both of us. Even if he keeps teasing you.” Fingon added the last with a cheeky grin, moving his head slightly so that he could glance at Maedhros. “Tell me, cousin, firstborn of Curufinwë firstborn of Finwë, are you going to follow our grandfather’s directive? Even conversing as we were at breakfast, I could not quite believe that he spoke to us as he did, directing you to ‘even the score’.”

Although he did not intend to, Maedhros shrank back as if he would make himself smaller. “Ah. Maybe,” he said, trying to recover, and laughed belatedly.

Fingon flinched as Maedhros shrank back, suddenly feeling neither as relaxed nor as content as he had moments before. He scooted forward and turned, kneeling and eyeing Maedhros cautiously. “I’m sorry—did it bother you that much? I—Russ, you asked me to be frank with you, but I confess I find myself at a loss regarding your wishes and desires at times as well. If you need, I can stop joking with grandfather, or refrain from bringing it up with you? Please don’t pull back from me.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Maedhros insisted, surging forward, sending water splashing over the side as he caught at Fingon’s hand. “I don’t want to hurt you. When you spoke of 'evening the score'—I was ungentle with you this morning—and last night—and—I just don’t want to hurt you again.”

“I’m not angry.” Fingon sounded slightly confused. He slid forward in the water, wrapping his arms around Maedhros and looking up slightly to meet his gaze from where he knelt. “I—why would you hurt me? I mean, I don’t want you to hurt me, but what you’ve done thus far I’ve thoroughly enjoyed, even if there was some slight pain. In that, it is fair to say the pain only increased my pleasure. And you do realize that when we bond there will be some amount of pain for me? I’m not made of glass, melda. Why would you be so against—forgive my words—making me lose control and scream in pleasure as loudly as you did when you spent?”

Maedhros trembled slightly, but pressed his face against Fingon’s warm neck and just breathed. “R-really?” he said after a minute, relieved that Fingon was not angry and that he had enjoyed himself even when Maedhros lost control of himself. “I-I mean—but you said you didn’t want me to.” Now his thoughts clouded even darker at Fingon’s words, and he pulled back enough to look Fingon in the eye, though he took him by the shoulders. “I don’t want to hurt you. When we’re bonded, Finno, you should take me,” he insisted, brow creased.

“Yes, really.” Fingon leaned forward slightly, then pulled back to force himself to continue the conversation from a reasonable distance. “Russ, I was not upset at what you did, or even at what you said in passion. I was angry and out of line when I brought that up. The individual thoughts, and the things we’ve done together—I regret none of it; I enjoyed all of it.” He kissed Maedhros’ cheek, needing some greater form of contact. “I told you—I wanted to be on my knees for you last night. I wanted you to take charge just like you did—and you had me nearly keening with desire without a single gentle touch. And Russ?” He leaned forward to touch his brow to his lover’s. “I want you to take me. That has been a dream of mine since I was aware such a thing could be between two Eldar. And the way you had me writhing on your fingers is a testament to how much I want that—how much I want that for real. I want you inside me, touching me where no one ever has. I want to feel you moving within me, and marking me deep inside as your bonded, your husband. I—I know this is not a fantasy you have shared—not from my perspective, I mean—and do not think less of me for it—but such an act would not be any sort of sacrifice on my part. It would be a dearest dream come true.”

“Nor would it be for me,” Maedhros said, eyes still pained, though things were beginning to make sense now, beginning to come together, both in his own mind and as he saw Fingon. “But I want both of those things,” he said slowly, carefully, making certain that he meant it (and now he did). He took Fingon’s hand in his and looked down at it, running his fingertips over his knuckles. “I want—everything, with you. Everything except—I am appalled at my behavior. Even if you have forgiven me.” He swallowed. “You spoke of your desires, what you want. What if I want you to punish me?” he asked.

Fingon turned his head, gaze locked firmly on the wall behind Maedhros. When he spoke it was slowly and deliberately. “I…” His brow furrowed briefly. “I will try to do anything for you.” He sighed. “I want no misunderstandings between us. If you erred, it was not intentional. Whereas my behavior was appalling and should have been controlled. But if you want…more than my forgiveness, more than fulfilling my request that we discuss things…what is it that you want Russ? What do you mean by 'punishment’?”

"I know you won’t strike me, though part of me wants that,” Maedhros mumbled. “I can think of no greater punishment than being separated from you—but I think that would be a punishment for you as much as me, and that defeats the purpose. You might give me a task or, or demand a payment.” He faltered, suddenly, rubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t know what I am asking for. I am so sorry, Finno.” He looked suddenly up at Fingon with a sad smile. “It is clear, anyway, that if I thought myself deserving of a superior position between us, I was wholly mistaken.”

“If I were to give you some direction, some punishment, I suppose it would just be this—don’t do that again—don’t assume things between us only work one way. But I don’t believe that is what you are asking for.” He sighed. “Russ, I’m truly not angry or upset. Well, I’m only upset that you’re clearly still hurting. I need you to help me understand what you want, if you can figure that out.” 

Maedhros shrugged miserably, a weight crushing his chest as he realized the futility of this. Fingon wasn’t half as angry at him as he was at himself, and he was hurting Fingon even more by asking for this. “Sorry. I don’t know. I don't—need—sorry for asking,” he said, trying to straighten his shoulders.

“Okay,” Fingon murmured, mostly to himself. “Okay.” He brought his hands up, cupping Maedhros’ face and tilting it so that their gaze meant. “You don’t have to do this, Russ. I don’t want to force you to do anything, and if you’d rather we stick to our previous plans for the evening, that is more than fine. Can you promise me right now that you’ll say no if you want to, or tell me my idea is stupid and that I should come up with something else?”

Maedhros laid his hand over Fingon’s and nodded. “I promise. Of course. I am asking you for this, please,” he whispered.

“If you want some…direction, then I would like this. I want to finish our bath Russ, and for you to help me tie my hair back quickly. No one will bother us tonight, and no one is in the rooms near ours. I want you to put on my ring—the way it’s meant to be worn, not around your neck. And I want you to put yours back on my finger.” Fingon brushed the ring mindlessly as he spoke of it. “Then I want you to shut the windows and dim the lights and come to bed. I want you to make both of us forget about our worries and concerns and guilt. I want us to be lost to one another entirely.” He hesitated before naming what Maedhros might object to. “I want you to lose control before this night is out, Russ. Your only limit is that we abide by our decision not to complete the bond. I want you to let go of your iron control, because you need to see that I won’t break or warp or be harmed. And neither will you. I want you to feel, to give, and, as you desire, to take. And if we need to discuss something in the morning, we’ll do so before we get out of bed, before we leave one another’s arms. And we’ll be okay.” He searched Maedhros’ eyes for any sign of his thoughts. “Is that—will that do, Russ? If you don’t want this, please tell me now. Because I would not have you when you do not desire it—I could not bear to.”

Maedhros felt a tingle beginning at the base of his spine, warm and comfortable, if new and different, and it crept up his back until his head felt dizzy. And he was entirely pleased with this scenario, with all of it, until— “But if I let my—” he began, “I need to—I should not lose myself—”

But that defeated the entire purpose of Fingon’s request, if he did not honor it. And it defeated the purpose of a punishment, if it was something he wanted to do. Of course he wanted Fingon, but— Fingon looked suddenly apprehensive, so Maedhros spoke quickly, suddenly steely: “Yes, Findekáno,” he said. “Please, yes. You reward me by granting me my chiefest of desires—which is to love you—and you punish me by asking me to give you what I most fear—my control of myself. I—remember what I did last time, Finno. But if you trust me, then I have no choice but to trust your judgment.” He kissed Fingon’s hand. “If this is your will, I accept it, gladly. As always, my first desire will be to please you.”

Fingon nodded. “As long as you truly accept it- even if your desire is to please me I would not lie with you in passion when it is not your wish. I greatly desire to please you, but could you bear to lie with me in such a situation if our positions were reversed? As for last time…I was upset about your comment about me taking you. The rest was perfect. The rest I would gladly repeat.” He smiled, brushed a kiss against Maedhros’ lips, and slid in the water, raising an impressive wave, as he dropped back into his previous position, his back to Maedhros’ chest and his head on his shoulder. “Russ? Is it just me, or is the water already beginning to cool off? That hardly seems fair.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s not fair,” Maedhros hummed, kissing the top of Fingon’s head reverently as he reached up to let more hot water flow in, resigned to the mess they were making outside the bath. “You need not ever fear my desire for you, Finno,” he said after a moment. “And I fear only what you do to me,” he added with a smile, “but you have told me to let go those fears, so I will.” He breathed deep and carefully, letting the tension run from him again. He was warm with Fingon’s love (and Fingon’s trust) again, and calmed by it. He wrapped his arms high about Fingon’s chest and squeezed him close. “Thank you for this—” (this opportunity to serve, to make up for misdeeds) he said, and kissed the back of Fingon’s neck. “I will not fail you.”

Fingon’s vision blurred, and a tear tracked down his cheek. “Of course you won’t. You never could.”

Maedhros huffed, and smiled, and felt better than he had all day. He shifted Fingon in his arms so that Fingon was tucked closer against him, turned more toward him, and tilted his chin back to kiss his lips–with love, and passion, and need, yes, but now also with a reverence reserved for something hallowed, for a thing undeserved but somehow (accidentally perhaps) wholly his. “Indeed, with that kind of faith,” he said (for what was he that a holy one had faith in him?), staring deep into Fingon’s endlessly blue eyes, “how could I?”

Fingon sighed against Maedhros’ lips, worshiping his own. And slowly, slowly need began to rise in him, growing as a slow warmth beginning at the base of his spine. “You make me feel…adored, cherished.” Fingon pulled back and rubbed his nose against Maedhros’ playfully, water sloshing as he moved. “I love you. And you’re exactly right, as you usually are. You couldn’t. Don’t you know that you’re everything?”

Maedhros snorted, pulling at Fingon again to cradle him in his arms, holding him mostly under the warm water except where he held his head aloft, dark hair tickling along his side. "I will grant that I might be your everything, but I doubt that I am actually everything.” Still, his smile was brilliant, because here, now, like this, he really did think that Fingon loved him in turn as much as Maedhros loved Fingon. “And you are adored, and you are cherished, so do not forget that.” He kissed Fingon again before setting Fingon upright again and reaching for soap with which to begin cleaning his hair.

Fingon smiled and as his scalp massage began. Despite the weight of his wet hair, he felt incredibly light. Floating, almost. “And you are adored, and cherished as well. And any time you are stressed or exhausted or upset—“ he reached back, and poked at Maedhros’ ring, “let this remind you that you are. And that, at the very least, you are my everything. And always shall be.” He stopped talking and groaned as Maedhros fingers dug into his scalp, rubbing the tension from a long day of hiking out of him. “Feels amazing, Russ… Have I told you I love you today?”

Maedhros chuckled. “You have. But you may say it again, as I like to hear it. And I love you, too,” he said, hands wandering down to massage the back of Fingon’s neck as well. When he was done (done touching, really, as Fingon’s hair was clean many minutes ago): “Lean back now, and close your eyes,” he said. He had washed the hair of more little brothers and cousins than he cared to count, and had a system, and had built up a rapport of trust with them.

“I like to hear you say it as well.” Fingon closed his eyes, allowing his body to completely relax (I trust you). He breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of the soap that Maedhros had chosen, and waiting patiently as Maedhros tended to him. “You spoil me,” he murmured finally. “How am I to go back to yanking a comb through my own damp hair as I pour water over it with this memory fresh in my mind?”

“Ah, well,” Maedhros said sadly, “you’ll just have to make the trek to my house whenever you want your hair washed; or I to thine, as I do not know how I can go back to not having my hands on you so.” When he had finished rinsing, and with Fingon’s eyes still closed, he fiendishly bopped him on the nose, causing Fingon to splutter and cry out. “Do not yank a comb through your hair, Finno,” he scolded. “Take care of it—for me if not for yourself.”

“Russ! I do take care of my hair—but it hates me! And it’s no trouble to trade a little comfort for the time that can be saved by yanking.” He nudged Maedhros playfully. “Be careful what you offer, melda, or I may start doing that- traveling to you when I need to bathe, I mean.” Fingon let out a sad sound. “Finished?”

“Almost—I should wash my hair,” he said, sliding close enough to Fingon that he could lie back in the bath to wet it. “And anyway don’t sound so sad. You sound as if we’re not going to have any fun once we are done here,” he said, smiling playfully.

Fingon reached behind him to wrap an arm around Maedhros’ neck. “Mmm. Is that a promise, beloved?” A moment later, he laughed. “Russ, you take such good care of me—I hardly know what I want. Your hands in my hair are divine, and I’m looking forward to my turn washing your hair and bathing you—but you speak like that and my body begins to respond, ready, already, to jump out of here and throw myself onto our bed.”

Maedhros laughed. “You can wait for me there if you like,” Maedhros said with a shrug. “Or—?” Only because Fingon mentioned it, and he was supposed to be less rigid about their 'roles,’ and well of course he would love Fingon’s fingers in his hair and on his scalp, he handed Fingon the soap, he asked: “you could return the favor? If you want?”

“I would love to.” He accepted the soap, and contemplated the logistics of the bath. “Umm… can I slip around you?” He grinned. “I think we’re running into the dangers of a small bath.” He stood, stepping behind Maedhros as his cousin slid forward. He wet Maedhros’ long hair, poured soap into his hands, and began circling his fingers against his scalp.

“Mmm,” Maedhros said, eyes sliding shut at Fingon’s ministrations. “That feels good.” He reached around behind him to give Fingon’s leg a squeeze as Fingon rinsed his hair.

Fingon inhaled deeply through his nose. “Russandol. You tempt me. Do you know greatly you tempt me, my love?” Their bodies were not quite flush—their seating left room for his arms to run through Maedhros hair down his back and move to gently rub his neck. But Fingon was aware that his interest in moving things into their bed was becoming apparent.

“About half as much as you tempt me?” Maedhros teased, rocking back against Fingon, please at the hiss of pleasure that earned him. “But we will hurry. And I know you do not enjoy it quite so much as I do, so I’ll try to be quick with your braids—and mine.” He stood abruptly, wringing his hair out before going for towels and returned holding one out to wrap Fingon in.

Fingon sank neck deep in the water one final time, then rose, shivering slightly and eagerly allowing Maedhros to wrap in a warm, soft towel. “If you want to spend time on our hair, I won’t complain,” Fingon commented. “I just know I rarely have the patience for it myself, and wouldn’t want you to feel obligated to put in one of your magnificent creations—particularly if we’re going to be rolling around in bed all night and it may well become irreparably mussed.”

Maedhros grinned. “Oh, so I have your permission to re-braid your hair in the morning? You spoil me. And in that case—” he guided Fingon to a low stool and pressed him to sit. He dried himself off passably and wrapped a towel around his waist, letting his own hair drip. He grabbed a smaller towel and squeezed out the excess water from Fingon’s hair before attempting to brush it out. “You can rest assured I will be quick for now, then,” he said, settling for one braid down the center of his head.

“You deserve to be spoiled.” Fingon snuck a glance back at Maedhros as he tied off the braid. “I’m glad I can begin to do that for you…even if it’s by giving you more work.” He shook his head in amusement and stood. “Here, may I do yours?”

Maedhros was surprised at the offer, but he smiled. “Please,” he said, switching places with Fingon. “—Here, let me brush it out—”

“I will,” he interjected, grabbing for the brush. “I like your hair, Russ. It’s much more enjoyable to work with yours than mine.” He ran the brush carefully through it, avoiding the yanking technique generally used on himself. “You are so beautiful, love. I cannot wait to swim with you again—and to see what else we can learn about our water stars.”

Maedhros gave up the brush without a struggle, and smiled to himself as he turned around. “My hair is only more enjoyable to work with because I take care of mine,” he said, but let the matter drop because he was soon becoming aware that the stimulation to his scalp was enough to drive him mad with desire. He shifted slightly restlessly.

Fingon smiled, brushing a kiss to the crown of his head. “It is very well taken care of. And very handsome.” He continued to run the brush through it, delighting in the way the soft hair yielded and parted with his strokes. As he worked his way down he leaned closer to Maedhros, nuzzling into his neck. “I desire thee,” he whispered, nipping at his lover’s ear. He backed away quickly, continuing to play with Maedhros hair, setting down the brush to run his fingers through it from scalp down his back through the ends of it.

Maedhros sighed and tried to lean against Fingon before he moved away. As Fingon continued to run his fingers through his damp locks (his hair already curling up as it dried), Maedhros could not decide if he wanted Fingon to have his hands in his hair forever or take his cousin to bed right this instant. It was becoming a real struggle. “And I desire thee,” he said, voice gravelly.

Fingon’s hands shook slightly. He carefully began sectioning off Maedhros’ hair to plait it. “Do you? Will you tell me what you desire, my prince?”

“Ah—” Maedhros stuttered. “I desire—” his breath hitched as his visions unfolded. “I desire to have you in the position you had me last night. You on hands and knees, me over you, behind you, covering you. And I would be kissing your neck—and—and maybe nibbling your ears, and—I would stroke you for—a long time, like that, I would take my time with you.” He swallowed. “And when you were—and if you—when you were on the edge you would reach up behind you and pull on my hair, rough enough to make me scream, maybe. But not as loud as you will scream when you spend, and I will follow soon after, ruining our bath.”

Fingon yanked on Maedhros hair then, in the midst of braiding it, half watching as his cousin’s head was forced backward, exposing the graceful curve of his throat. “Valar, Russ! Sorry.” He quickly gentled it back into place, smoothing out his hair as he continued to work with trembling hands. “And do you want that first, my love, as soon as we climb into bed?” He finished the braids and tied them off, stepping forward to press himself against Maedhros’ back. Fingon wrapped his arms around his cousin, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

Fingon stole the very breath from his lungs by pulling his hair, and it took him a few moments to recover and realize that Fingon was talking to him. “Ai—ah—mm, yes,” he said. “Please. But wait,” he fumbled at the chain around his neck, taking the ring and trying to click it together.

“Give it here,” Fingon snapped. He unclasped his own, holding it out to Maedhros and snatching at his ring, but after a few frustrated seconds he gave up, looking ready to throw it. 

“Here, wait,” Maedhros said, closing his hand around Fingon’s. “I want you while you’re yet wet and warm,” he said, pulling Fingon into a rough kiss as he slid his ring onto Fingon’s finger. He then took Fingon’s ring back, still in pieces, and slid the towel from around Fingon’s shoulders: “I’ll take care of the ring. You should go wait—ahh—” but here he faltered, slightly, unsure if he was still allowed to do this, “if you want, of course. I m-mean I want to see you—I would like to walk into the bedroom to see you waiting for me. Ah. On your hands and knees, on the bed.” He brushed his knuckles over Fingon’s face. “Cold and desperate for me to join you.” He smiled hopefully, questioning. “And I will warm you.”

Fingon took the hand brushing across his face in his own, and bent his hand to place a slow, deliberate kiss against the back of it. He steadied himself a moment. Then, as he lifted his head to look at Maedhros, he straightened his shoulders and let his towel fall to the wet ground below them. He felt his skin prickling and tightening from the cold immediately, fighting the fire that surged through him at his lover’s words. “As you wish, cundunya.”

He stepped lightly out of the room, fingers reaching out to dim the light crystals as he made his way to the bed. He pulled back the cover, folding it to lay at their feet, and placed himself on hands and knees. He could not think how to make himself look enticing, so he settled for a position he could hold. And as he waited, he thought of Maedhros, and what they were about to do. He thought about how his Russ would make him wait. Would help him wait until he could bear it no longer. And how Russ would feel in the position he had held last time, spread over him and held firmly between his thighs, slick with sweat and oil. And Fingon found himself panting already, arms shaking slightly as he let his mind drift into his imaginings.

Maedhros sucked in a breath as he watched Fingon straighten his shoulders and flee into the bedroom, his body responding immediately—far too early—and far too eagerly. But he would hold onto this tonight. He would wait, wait for Finno—and just the thought of Fingon waiting on the bed for him made him dizzy and made him ache the more. He looked down at the ring, spinning it together, but the last piece wouldn’t quite slide into place, and his hands were shaking too much. Groaning, he slid the ring pieces onto his finger: the rest had to wait until he could see straight. Taking a deep breath he worked to clean the water closet, hanging towels, mopping water toward the drain, and spending about as much time as he thought he could manage making Fingon (or himself) wait before stepping out into the darkened bedroom.


	11. Chapter 11

Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he could no longer breathe, for of course Fingon was more beautiful than in his wildest imaginings. “Ai, Finno,” he sighed, just standing to watch.

“Russ?” Fingon’s call was soft and questioning, barely a breath upon the air. He thought for a moment he had heard Maedhros, but perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. He was caught fast in a web of desire, unwilling to move from the position Maedhros had asked to find him in, and unable to concentrate on anything but his desires. At present—and when was the present? How long at Maedhros left him here?—the most he could do was fight to keep his hips and arms steady, though at this point even his thighs were threatening to shake as he waited—patiently, he could do that for Russ—for Maedhros to come to him.

Maedhros came alive at the sound of his name—his Findekáno-name—the word only Fingon called him. Russandol he was to those closest to him, but he was only ever Russ to one person. “I am here, Fin,” he answered, stepping close and laying a hand on Fingon’s back, “and you are beautiful and I am so very proud of you.” He pressed a kiss to Fingon’s side, along one of his ribs. He wanted to write ‘Russ’ on Fingon’s bones. His eyes reluctantly flicked around the room until he spotted the oil on stand on the other side of the bed.

“How long have I been waiting?” He asked, eyes tracking Maedhros as he moved across the room. “I’ve stayed like this, as you asked, but already I tremble—and not only from cold, my love. From desire and yearning for thee.”

“Good,” Maedhros huffed, before he realized that sounded cruel. “Not long, melda,” he soothed, running his hand up and down Fingon’s spine. “A few minutes. I cannot stay away from you, any more than you enjoy being without me.” His hand never breaking contact with Fingon’s skin, but skimming over different parts, Maedhros skirted the bed until he arrived at the pot of oil, where he picked it up and brought it with him, the bed dipping as he crawled up beside Fingon. He pressed his face to Fingon’s neck, breathing in the scent of his wet hair, and breathing out hot behind his ear. “I don’t want you to touch yourself,” he whispered. “I want to touch you.” He licked his lips. “But I might allow you touch me.” As if to tease, he laid back on the bed, slicking his hand in oil, and stroked himself to attention in full view of Fingon.

Fingon wet his lips, unable to look away from Maedhros presenting himself. This—this was a presentation designed to elicit desire. And sprawled before him, lazily stroking himself, his cousin looked every bit the decadent prince. “Ruussss,” he moaned, hips shifting lightly, moving in rhythm with Maedhros’ hand. “Oh, cousin. What—what must I do to prove myself, that I might touch you? Or shall that depend on your mood alone?”

“Ah, well,” Maedhros said, grinning, “I love to hear you desperate and begging. But—” he took his cousin’s chin in thumb and forefinger, “never think you must prove yourself to me.” He winked. “So patience for now: I will not make you wait long.” Indeed, even as he said so he rubbed more oil into his palm, and reaching between Fingon’s legs, felt his cousin already hard and leaking, and he laughed, pleased, and pressed a kiss to Fingon’s shoulder.

“You undo me,” Fingon moaned. He twisted his fingers in the bedding, desperate for anything to ground him. And he reveled in this—in Maedhros feeling free to play, even if his play denied Fingon touch and movement. “Can you imagine what you look like in this moment, beloved? Artists across Aman would offer anything to have a glimpse of you, for you would inspire the grandest works of sculpture, paint, and craftsmanship for years to come. Ah!” He cried out at a change in Maedhros’ movement, and took deep breaths, trying to regain control of himself.

Maedhros huffed. “Your speech tells me I have not yet reduced you to where I want you, though I am flattered.” Maedhros reclaimed his hand, though Fingon whimpered pitifully. But Maedhros got up now, and positioned himself behind Fingon, his sex sliding against Fingon’s thighs almost casually, as if it did not bother him, before he pushed Fingon’s knees together. “On your elbows, down,” he said, patting his backside. “I don’t want you to lose your balance.”

Fingon bit his lip and nodded, moving as Maedhros instructed. He glanced back once, then focused on keeping himself upright. The view he must have made! But for all of Maedhros’ casual comments, he heard hitches in his breath and felt the burning heat that radiated from him, the twitches when Maedhros’ arousal brushed against him. And soon, when they were pressed together, he would feel each gasp or caught breath or moan that came from Maedhros.

“Ai, Finno, what you do to me,” he sighed, slicking his fingers with more oil and pressing his hand between Fingon’s legs, between the tight channel of his thighs—and he pressed far enough to touch Fingon on the other side, to stroke him with just the tips of his fingers, making Fingon moan and whimper. Finally satisfied (or impatient himself), Maedhros positioned himself behind Fingon, lining himself up, and reached around to take hold of Fingon’s sex firmly. “Are you ready, melda?” he asked. He could feel Fingon positively shivering beneath him, whether from cold or desire, or both.

Fingon could not control the sounds coming out of him- Maedhros appeared to be making it his duty to turn him into a trembling wreck, and Fingon would not deny him. His spinning world ground to a halt with Maedhros’ hand around him and his words in his ear. “Yes,” he affirmed softly. “Please, my future husband. I would have thee.”

“Always,” Maedhros said, and slid between Fingon’s legs, groaning at the sensation as he draped himself over the top of Fingon’s shivering form. He had to brace himself one-handed at Fingon’s shoulder, and he was struck now by how small Fingon was in comparison. It made him feel huge, that he covered Fingon so completely. He kissed Fingon’s shoulder, only heeding his cousin’s needs as he whined desperately: slowly, deliberately, then, he began to move his hand, in time with the shallow thrusting of his own hips. “Ahh, Finno, you feel so good,” he gasped.

Fingon pressed back into Maedhros, relishing the feel of his cousin over him and around him. He had had Maedhros curled around him before in sleep, but this was altogether different. Before him he saw Maedhros’ hand close to his own on the bed, but Maedhros’ was so much larger than his own—he felt like a child in comparison. No wonder at times Maedhros saw him as some delicate thing. He smiled at his words, pulled from him as he began to move, and groaned at the memory of the last time they did this. “It’s close to perfect,” he panted. “You feel amazing, pushing through me.”

Maedhros shook along with Fingon now. “I’ll try to push through you,” he promised, “when this is real and you’re begging me, and I’m mad with desire.” He kissed Fingon’s neck and licked a stripe up the side before settling on a place to suck a dark bruise. “Oh-h-hhh I love you, Finno,” he said with a shudder. “You feel so good. Taste so good. I love you.” Feeling Fingon close to spending, however, he tightened his grip, locking Fingon’s pleasure inside of him. “Wait. Wait for me,” he growled.

Fingon moaned at the loss, and continued to moan, twitching and shuddering, in response to Maedhros’ firm control. Desire surged higher for him as Maedhros forced his body to obey. “Yes, yes melda,” he promised, whimpering. He flexed his thighs, tightening them as much as he could on Maedhros’ next thrust, able to feel his reaction in breath and pulse and arousal as Maedhros slid against him.

“Aa-ahh-hh,” he ground out, stars exploding in front of his vision as Fingon tightened around him. “Uhh, Finno. Fin—I can't—” his breath was coming in short, quick pants, so he stroked Fingon harder, quicker. He worried his teeth into the meaty part of Fingon’s shoulder to keep from screaming. “I want to hear when you come apart, Finno,” he gasped. “I want to hear you.” His thrusts began to stutter.

Already soft sounds were escaping Fingon almost constantly—things he could not hold back. Abandoning himself now to his lover’s care, he obeyed immediately. He was burning—burning inside and out from Maedhros’ heat surrounding him and his own desire. “Russ! Oh Russ, please! Ah!” His words quickly jumbled together in longs strings of begging and his cousin’s name. And his voice grew louder as did his pleas as Maedhros forced him to the edge once more.

“Here we go, Finno,” Maedhros huffed, faster and faster now. “I’ve got you, now, I want you to come for me. I’ve got you and you’re mine and I love you.” He bit down on the tip of his ear, lathing at the spot with his tongue. “And I’m yours. But right now, I want you to show me how much you love me, I want to hear you, come on, Finno—and—and I want—” Shifting for balance, he took Fingon’s hand in his, and raised it up until it tangled in his hair. “Hold me here.”

Fingon yanked on his hair immediately, and only the large amount in his grasp allowed him to force Maedhros’ head down instead of ripping the hair from his scalp. “PLEASE! Oh, Valar, RUSS PLEASE!” He shouted without thought, his entire body trembling as pleasure coursed through him and his body demanded release. He shook his own head, trying to clear it, unable to sort between all of the signals coming from his body—from Maedhros’ mouth on his ears and neck to his chest pressed to Fingon’s back, their thighs pressed together, and Maedhros’ hand stroking him firmly. He moved his arm slightly, grasping for Maedhros’ hand and fitting his own over top of it. “Pleaase,” he moaned, voice raw.

“I’ve got you,” Maedhros growled, shaking off Fingon’s hand and stroking him to completion. “Come for me, now,” he said, his own hips stuttering to a finish. “I love you, Finno, my wonderful boy, so proud, I love you—now, with me, NOW!”

Fingon shouted something that may have been Maedhros’ name, body clenching and spasming as he continued to rock back against Maedhros and forward into his hand. As he came, his grip tightened in his lover’s hair and did not loosen. He pulled again, hard, forcing Maedhros’ head forward as he tried to keep himself upright, pressing himself against the hard, sturdy frame of his lover.

And Maedhros hissed and cried out, climax wrenched from him as Fingon tugged on his hair. As his face was pressed against Fingon’s shoulder Maedhros bit down on the flesh there, stifling his own cry as he finished, legs turning to jelly before he spent everything. “Oh, Finno, Finno, Finno,” he moaned, trembling in the aftershocks, feeling Fingon absolutely wrecked beneath him. He replaced teeth with lips, sloppy kisses along neck and shoulder, and words that were sweet nothings. “I have you, I have you,” he said gently, shushing Fingon as he pulled knees and elbows out from under him to lie him gently on the bed, still twitching and whimpering. “Such a good boy,” he cooed, kissing hair out of his face, covering him with his body, waiting until their hearts and breathing slowed. “I love you.”

“Betrothed.” The name was half address, half prayer as Fingon’s breathing slowed and his head cleared enough to talk. He stretched a little underneath Maedhros, feeling his shoulder ache from his rough treatment, and his thighs twinge in protest at moving. Even his abs felt slightly sore, as after a long sparring session. “Love you… Did that please thee?” And then with a huff of laughter, “How long have you been thinking about doing that, Russ?”

“Longer than I dare admit, even to you,” Maedhros responded with a shy grin, pulling Fingon against him enough to pillow his cousin’s head on his arm. “Never did I think I might until tonight, however.” He kissed Fingon’s brow, embracing him tightly, a leg hooking up over Fingon’s hip. “And you always please me,” he admonished gently. “Now—did I hurt you? At all?” He traced teeth marks—red but not deep, and one black bruise that would be mostly hidden by hair—with his fingertips. 

Fingon shook his head with a soft smile. “Told you, Russ, ‘m not made of glass.” They rested like that a while longer, enjoying the warmth and closeness. Eventually Fingon pushed at Maedhros’ shoulder. “Roll over for me?”

Humming contentedly, Maedhros obliged, rolling to his side, but Fingon kept pushing him until he was flat on his back. There was not a second that Maedhros did not maintain that needed contact, pulling his cousin over on top of him.

Fingon let out a hissed breath as he settled, straddled atop Maedhros’ hips, their spent sexes brushing. “Melda,” he breathed. He looked down upon his lover, and followed his eyes with his mouth, kissing him softly. He pushed himself back, stroking his hands down Maedhros’ neck and chest, and down his arms, alighting on the ring. Carefully, he unclasped the chain and picked up the pieces, spinning them together.

“May I have your hand, my Russandol?” He took it in his own, and gently slid the ring back onto Maedhros’ finger. “I am yours, as you are mine.” He rocked forward slightly, relishing the gasp the movement elicited.

"Yes, melda,” Maedhros gasped, eyes glazing over slightly. Fingon was beautiful over him like this, braid over one shoulder, starlight behind him, shining off his skin. And the ring fit snugly around his finger, making him dizzy with love. “Tenn’ Ambar-metta.”

“Hmm—you were determined to take control and to make me lose control, but as for you—“ Fingon ground down against Maedhros, entire body twitching slightly from the overstimulation, though it he was better prepared for it than Maedhros. “I don’t think you’ve quite gotten to the point of losing control.” He began to move slightly above him, just wanting to draw responses from his prone lover. And, as he was more in control at the moment, he had no trouble initiating a conversation. “Russ, may I ask you something? I’m not angry or upset—just curious, really.”

Maedhros keened slightly before he cut himself off, biting the back of his hand to keep quiet. “Nee—uhh—” he was going to say 'need’ but had gotten no further in constructing the thought. But Fingon’s query brought him back to himself: “Nuh—what? Yes, Fin?” In spite of Fingon’s words he couldn’t help but wonder if he was in trouble.

Fingon immediately acted to counter the note of worry in Maedhros’ voice. He lowered himself until he lay flat against Maedhros’ torso, fingers threading through his hair and tilting his head upward slightly so that he could kiss him, tongue seeking entrance at his mouth. At Maedhros’ groan he squeezed his legs around his middle, like a rider urging a horse on. He pulled back with a gasp, hands drifting down to rest on his cousin’s shoulders, squeezing lightly. “I—never mind. It’s not important.” He looked at Maedhros, who looked dizzy with sensation. “I just…I like that you are taller than me, and stronger than me.” His hands dipped to squeeze and Maedhros’ biceps before coming back to rest on his shoulders. “You are older and wiser, and I love you just as you are. And enjoy how you speak to me—all of the ways in which you speak to me. And I think this just proved how… stimulating I find our discourse and your endearments. I am just—curious—do you truly see me as a boy?”

“I—” though lost in lust, Maedhros thought carefully about this as he considered the figure above him. He was yet slight, not having filled out as he surely would; and Maedhros still felt a sense of responsibility for him, to teach and to protect. And yet—that was changing now. Fingon was nearly grown, and already Maedhros was putting more and more trust in him, already more and more Fingon made him feel safe and loved and protected. “Not anymore,” he decided. “An old term that no longer suits you. It was, I suppose, part of the game. D-did it offend you?”

Fingon shook his head wordlessly, hands playing across Maedhros’ skin. He grinned slightly, “I suppose in some ways I will always be your boy. And that is something I am perfectly content with.” He leaned down, skipping Maedhros’ lips to whisper into his ear. “And perfectly willing to play with. Particularly if you will also allow me to be your ner. For I would be thy protection, comfort, safety when I am full grown, as you are already mine.” He went back to rocking lightly against Maedhros as he pulled back to study his face. “And I will work to be as close to your equal as I can become, melda. I will do what I can to increase my strength and my speed, so that my training my leave me close to where your body and natural skills have left you in sparring and wrestling and races. And if you will help me and guide me, I would continue to learn that I might improve the distance between us in your many fields of study as well.” He fell silent a moment, before reaching between them to stroke their awakening arousals together. “Though this—I would learn love making in concert with you. And this we may explore together and teach to each other.”

“Ai—ah, Finno!” Maedhros squeaked, struggling slightly as Fingon was wrenching cries from him that were unnecessarily loud. He grabbed Fingon’s wrist and half sat up, his chest fluttering, but did not actually do anything to stop him. “You must stop trying to match me, as you say—” he gasped, “for your opinion of me is entirely too high and you will surpass me in all things you put your mind to—in all things at which you do not already surpass me.” With a small grin, he fell back to the pillow. “Which I, for the record, would not mind.” His breath hitched again at Fingon’s attentions.

Fingon followed him, bowing his head and trailing kisses across Maedhros’ chest, pausing to lathe and nibble sections of skin, and biting and sucking gently at his pebbled nipples. “You never cease to amaze me,” he said finally. “You think the world of everyone but yourself—it is like you emit light, yet are unable to see it from your position at the center of it. Russandol—even were we other than as we are, I could not help but respect and admire you. For you are incredible at anything you turn your hand to, and your only blindness seems to be in thinking too little of yourself and too highly of me. I thank you for your words but…” he paused to create a new mark. “I fear, for now, at least, I must race to keep up with your strides.”

Maedhros’ legs kicked as Fingon pulled wave upon wave of pleasure from him. “Ai, Finno, please, please,” he said, squirming beneath him. “You flatter me—and—you—” He was already quite dizzy, chest heaving as he gasped in small breaths. As Fingon bit into his too-sensitive flesh, he cried out, but threw an arm over his face to stifle it. “Please, Finno, stop—I—I can't—”

Fingon immediately pulled back and stilled his hand. “Stop?” he asked, blowing cool air across the sensitive skin. “Or do you want more?” He moved up to hover above Maedhros’ face, skin dragging alone the fresh marks that dotted the landscape of Maedhros’ body. “I don’t want to hurt you either, my betrothed.” He gently stroked the knuckles of his free hand along Maedhros’ cheek, allowing his ring—his perfect, smooth, banded ring, to also trace across his lover’s flesh. “Tell me if I might continue to play with your body, Maitimo?” he entreated.

Maedhros hissed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No. No, don’t stop, but—I—” His hips were shifting desperately: he was going to buck Fingon off him any moment (buck him off and crawl atop him instead, probably), whether he meant to or not. “I nuh—I need you to hold me—down,” it sounded so stupid when he said it out loud, when he asked for it. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to get too loud.” Here he was, he was worried about everything, overthinking, and he tensed again.

Fingon brought both of his hands up and drew Maedhros’ arms over his head, holding his wrists to the bed. He spread his legs further for more balance, letting out a soft hiss as he slid against Maedhros. If Maedhros wanted him off, he would be off him in seconds—he did not yet have the mass to pin him in such a position. But that was his ultimate goal—to convince Maedhros to give up his self-control to that extent. “Okay. This—this will work for a little while. And Russ?” Maedhros nodded at him. “I want you to move, okay? I want you to move against me, now that I can’t use my hand because you need me to help you stay in in place. Because you’re going to let go a little, and let me be the one staying under control.” He rolled his hips against Maedhros, leaning down to take him in a deep kiss. 

Fingon stole his breath with that kiss, and more besides. “I, ah—” Maedhros huffed, staring at Fingon until his vision of him went blurry. But there wasn’t anything to say to that, because Fingon had not asked necessarily, he had just said this was the way it was going to go—and—that was better. Safer. If Fingon said he could let go—just a little, he said—then perhaps— He flexed his arms slightly, testing Fingon’s hold, and nodded, blind with desire. “M-may I?…” His legs shook.

“Please,” Fingon begged, sliding his hips in a circle. “Want you to lose control Russ, remember? You won’t hurt me- you can’t hurt me. I know that no matter how far gone you are, if I told you to stop you would stop. No, if you don’t actually buck me off in the first ten seconds that would be rather appreciated.” He rubbed their noses together teasingly. “But I want to see you unrestrained. And if this ends with me writhing under you and wrenching at a fistful of your hair near the scalp as you thrust us together and hold me down I won’t be complaining.” He kissed Maedhros and bit at his lower lip, tugging on lightly before releasing it. He tried to rebalance himself slightly- he wanted to hold Maedhros down without putting enough pressure on his wrists to bruise them.

Maedhros surged upward into the kiss, desperate and thirsty for it, and a groan was wrenched from his chest as he began to slide, writhing against the bed, hips and legs working—awkward at first until he found that angle that had them both gasping—and then nothing in the world would keep him from that movement. “Fin—Finno—” he whined (he might have been frightened: he! Nelyafinwë Curufinwion!) as he felt himself slipping. But Fingon was holding him, he was safe, he was— And when he finally slid into place (or out of place), everything was Findekáno and he had no need to buck him off and take, because it was freely given. He was certain he had lost the ability to speak, but not the ability to make noise, though he saw and heard the world through a comfortable cloud now.

Fingon shook his head to clear it, and focused on his shaking arms holding Maedhros down. He moved them together, so that both hands covered joined wrists just above Maedhros’ head. Biting his lip, he risked another glance at Maedhros, who stared up with dazed eyes, raising both of them slightly off the bed with strong thrusts. He swiveled his hips again, the corner of his mouth twitching upward at Russ’ reaction. But as much as he was enjoying this, he wanted to help Maedhros complete his ‘punishment’ for the evening as Maedhros would want to, and that aside he wished to see Maedhros unchained.

He ground them together, beads of sweat running down his back, and leaned down to latch his teeth of Maedhros’ pulse point. His cousin became louder and his rhythm began to falter. And as Fingon watched his eyes widen as he reached his end, he copied Maedhros’ action from before. Unbalancing himself, he withdrew his right hand. He grasped around Maedhros’ base tightly, holding him back from finishing.

Everything was a blinding whirlwind of white light and searing pleasure and helpless desperation. He was close, he was there, and then Fingon—then—he—why wasn’t?—

It was too late to struggle in earnest: his legs were jelly, his movements uncoordinated. Up was south and west was backwards and Fingon was holding him, holding him back (he was being punished, wasn’t he?), holding him in the palm of his hand (why was Fingon suddenly so much larger than him?), holding— He must have cried out, an undignified noise that choked off, hips jerking spasmodically. “Findekáno, please—” he gasped—or screamed, “Please, please, pleasepleasepleaseFinplease—Finno, I—”

Fingon expected Maedhros to buck him off—to find himself pinned down and controlled and probably denied for a time in retribution not letting Maedhros spend. Instead his lover began to come apart under him, and waiting to be thrown off Fingon froze for a moment, unsure how to proceed. He careened towards the edge listening to Maedhros beg- and this, this must be why Maedhros so delighted in turning him into a writhing, passionate mess.

“Shh, shh, Russ.” He kept a firm grip on him, and leaned down to kiss away a tear making its way down his cheek. “Tell me what you want, melda. You are my betrothed, my melda heru, and I will take such good care of you, Russ. But you have to tell me what you need.” He had continued to thrust himself against Maedhros, the motion almost teasing with the added girth of his fist between them. Fingon opened his hand to encompass both their sexes (now that Meadhros had pulled slightly away from the edge), stroking lightly. He fit his mouth over Maedhros’ briefly, tongues swiping across one another before he pulled back, waiting for Maedhros to direct him or, should Maedhros not do so, to continue as he chose to.

“Ai—ahh, ai!” Maedhros cried, bucking now, but without strength or purpose: “Guhh, fuck!” He was trembling, but he had no reason, no desire, not a single one, to struggle, and moved only because his body was moving on its own. “Please,” he managed, and “you.” That sounded right. That was an answer, wasn’t it? Fingon’s fingers moved against him, he could feel Fingon’s sex against his, he wanted—but he could not say or even think what he wanted. Fingon knew. Didn’t he? Maedhros certainly didn’t. He whimpered, begging, but settled as Fingon gentled him.

“You would ask for the one thing I can’t grant,” Fingon said in amusement, despite knowing Maedhros had not meant the word that way. He nuzzled into his cousin’s neck, nipping at his chin as he began to move his hand with firm, purposeful strokes. He released Maedhros’ wrist, gently bringing one arm down, and he buried his fist in Maedhros’ hair. He recalled what his cousin had enjoyed before, and twisted it roughly, almost cruelly, pulling at it in synch with the movements of his other hand. “What do you need, Russ?” he asked again.

“Ai, ai,” he whimpered like some sort of cur as Fingon tugged on his hair, completely undone, hands flailing for purchase now they were released. Fingon was going to make him say it, wasn’t he? The humiliation made him dizzy, and he wasn’t even sure the words could make it from his lips. “Need—please, Finno—” There wasn’t enough air. “Need to finish. R-release. Please.” He tried to interpose his hands, to finish himself—but his hands were clumsy and Fingon batted them away. He arched his back weakly, head falling back to expose his neck as Fingon tugged on his hair again.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Fingon asked, voice tender, increasing the speed of his strokes. “Are you close, my Russ? I want to spend with thee.” He continued to move on top of Maedhros, and worried his cousin’s lip with his teeth. Maedhros was beautiful like this- undone and uncaring of who or where they were. He watched Maedhros panting with open mouth, and could not help but dive down to cover it with his own. As they drew near the edge he pulled harshly at Maedhros’ hair to get his attention. “You said you need to finish, and I will not deny you. But do you want to finish now? Are you ready to spend and fall back to yourself? If not, I will hold us back again.”

Maedhros cried out against the threat– “No, no, please, yes, now, please, Fin, please—” and struggled, writhing in earnest, needing, needing Fingon to allow him–to help him—entirely bewildered (not scared, not uncomfortable) by being wholly under his cousin’s control. “Close, please,” he whined, voice pitched high and cracking around the edges. His world reduced to Fingon’s hands, Fingon’s teeth—and his own hair was in this world—and his desperate, aching, straining, needing sex even dared to hope again— “Please, Findekáno,“ he whispered.

“Anything,” Fingon breathed, taking his mouth desperately. “Anything, Russandol. I promised I would take care of you.” He pressed his closed mouth to Russ’, eyes searching his face for any signs of distress. “My betrothed, my prince, my love, I have you. You can let go, I have you.” On his next stroke Fingon twisted at the top, almost roughly, and his own hips jerked uncontrollably at the action. “Finish for me—now Russ—I would spend with thee!“

Maedhros screeched obscenely as he spent—hard—almost painfully—desperately, sense coming back to him in stages: he was attached to a body, rigid with pleasure, attached to a head with hair and a mouth with words (eyes that couldn’t see, not yet), attached to limbs that shook, fingers locked onto where they gripped Fingon. And he was attached to that body, too, large (though maybe not as large as he thought before), covering him, sheltering him, pleasuring him, everything to him. He was screaming Fingon’s name—or he might have been screaming nonsense. And when the white turned down so he could see, Fingon was there, was always there.

Fingon lost himself riding on the high of Maedhros’ pleasure. His lover was truly the most beautiful Elda he had ever seen, and in this moment, lost to need and pleasure, he was a sight to behold. Fingon’s eyes lost focus as he spent, but quickly, before his heartbeat slowed and the haze of pleasure disappeared, he found himself watching Maedhros. He lowered himself onto his cousin’s chest, blanketing him and propping up his chin with a hand as he waited for him to come back to himself. Fingon gently stroked his free hand through Maedhros’ hair, carefully undoing the tangles he had caused. And as he worked he murmured gentle words of praise interspersed with words of comfort and reassurance as he worked on a particularly difficult tangle.

Maedhros returned to himself aware of Fingon first (he was numb, his body didn’t make sense, his head didn’t make sense, who was he?). Breath (harsh in his ear), fingers in his hair (gentle now: almost as good as before when they were rough), words (a voice, only, a voice he knew and trusted and loved, words didn’t matter), skin (chest against his chest as he gulped in air). Air was the first realization of himself as he returned, all in a rush. He needed air, but he also needed Fingon, who was atop him, protecting him. Why was Fingon so small? That seemed odd. "Fin? Finde—kano—” He’d lost control, hadn’t he? It was like he had blacked out, or gotten very drunk, except now he remembered it in vivid detail. He would have blushed if his face wasn’t already red from exertion. “Did I? —I did—it? Um. Findekánoooo—” and now he was trembling, maybe, and he needed to be held and closed his eyes to ground himself, curling up his limbs against his cousin as Fingon shushed and held him.

“Yes, yes you did.” Fingon began stroking his hair, trying to calm Maedhros’ trembling form. “You were beautiful, melda.” He smiled at Maedhros’ upturned face with lax expression and closed eyes, and kissed him gently. “Are you alright? Was that good for you, Russ? I think I quite understand the joy you take in driving me mad with pleasure and need.” He relaxed into Maedhros’ for a moment, though he was become aware of the wet and sticky forms which would need to be dealt with before long. “Inyetye-mela, Russ. Tenn’ Ambar-metta inyetye-mela.“

Maedhros nodded now, as that was all he was sure he could manage. His limbs still twitched faintly, and his breath was still harsh and uneven, and part of him might have been embarrassed at what this had done to him, but this was Fingon who was holding him, covering him, gentling him, so he settled, embracing instead the warmth and the love and letting it crash over him in waves. His fingers (he could feel Fingon’s ring around his finger, secure and comfortable) wandered over skin, just feeling, memorizing, loving. “F-fin,” he hummed, unable to remember other words but liking the sound and meaning of this syllable. His eyes were still closed in complete trust.

“I’m here,” Fingon whispered, nuzzling against Maedhros’ neck. “I’ve got you.” He shifted slightly, and half-grimaced at the feel of their bodies beginning to stick together. With a sigh, he pulled away from his cousin, running a hand through his hair and planting a soft kiss on his brow. “Rest, Russ. I’ll be back in just a minute.” He gave Maedhros hand a squeeze and slid off the bed, stepping lightly across the room, and lighting a few candles in the washroom before beginning to feel the bath. Once sure that the water was coming at the right temperature, he went back to find Maedhros.

Maedhros rolled over onto his side, brow knitting together as he wondered where Fingon went, but trusting him to come back in a timely fashion. Needing to have his arms around something in the meantime, however, he hugged a pillow to his chest until the dipping of the bed told him Fingon had returned. His touch was warm and comfortable, and Maedhros leaned into it, and though Maedhros didn’t entirely understand the words, he was pliant in Fingon’s hands.

Fingon ran his hands down Maedhros’ arms, almost unable to believe how loose and lax he was. He looked over his shoulder at the bathroom with a sigh, unwilling to force Maedhros into a more conscious state. “Russ?” he called softly. “I’m running a bath, come here—roll over—there.” He guided his lover with gentle but steady hands, until he lay at the edge of the bed. He slipped his hands beneath Maedhros, and lifted him. With a soft grunt he set off with Maedhros cradled against his chest, and entering the washroom he lowered him gently into the warm water, kneeling beside the tub and pouring in a bathing oil that smelled of pine trees and clear mountain air.

Maedhros settled contentedly, loving the warm water on his skin, loving the strong piney scent that filled his nose and made bubbles foam around his feet where water poured in. He beamed up at Fingon with adoration: he wanted—he reached out a hand, snatching at his betrothed where he tried to walk past. This was wonderful. Words were unnecessary. But he liked it better when he was touching Fingon.

Fingon settled at the head of the bath, and began carefully cleaning Maedhros with smooth strokes of a cloth. He wanted his cousin clean and comfortable for the night, but he wished to avoid waking him further. When Maedhros’ hand gently came up to hold his arm—not guiding, just relishing the contact—Fingon leaned his head down, laying it on his shoulder with a sight. “Comfortable, melda?” Letting the cloth drop, he brought his hand up, wrapping it across Maedhros’ chest and squeezing slightly.

"Mm,” Maedhros said. He wondered briefly how he had gotten here (and perhaps where here exactly was?), but decided not to, leaning his head back against Fingon’s shoulder instead. He blinked dizzily at the ceiling.

“Close your eyes for a moment, Russ.” Fingon turned on the tap and rinsed Maedhros’ face with fresh water. He stared at his cousin a moment, unable to tear his eyes away. But the water was cooling, and Maedhros’ fingers were beginning to wrinkle. “I’ll be right back, melda. Just relax.” Squeezing his shoulder reassuringly he slipped out of the bathroom, laying out a large towel across the top of the bed. He came back in, encouraging Maedhros to wrap his arms around his neck, and carefully pulled him out of the water, and with a final jerk and full knowledge that his back would be feeling this in the morning, he made his way back into the main room, depositing his cousin in the center of the towels.

Maedhros was suddenly (not suddenly, for he marked the journey) in bed, but he spoke too late: “Can walk,” he said, but he was already in bed, feeling cold and vulnerable. “Findekáno—” he said, sitting up, reaching out. He shook his head now, as if trying to clear it, trying to wake from this—wherever he was.

“I know, I know,” Fingon whispered. He gently pressed Maedhros back into the bed, wrapping the towel around him and drying him. “But Russ, tonight you don’t have to. I’ve got you, if you’ll let me.” He leaned over him, pressing their mouths together.

Maedhros’ eyes glazed over again as Fingon kissed him, pressing him back to the bed. And Fingon was brave, and Fingon was warm, and Fingon loved him. He needed nothing else. He wrapped his arms around Fingon, holding tight, in case the world really was spinning and they might fall apart.

“Three minutes, betrothed, can you give me that?” Fingon squeezed Maedhros tightly, and guided him off the towel and under the sheets. When his lover was tucked away, he ducked back into the bathroom, jumping into the tepid water and scrubbing himself brusquely. Unplugging the drain, he toweled off half-heartedly, and almost sprinted- still shedding drops of water—into the bed and under the covers where Maedhros (blessedly hot, tall, clinging Maedhros) was waiting.

“Ahmm,” he murmured pleasantly, limbs going around Fingon’s body the second he returned, drawing him to him, unwilling to let go. He rested his head against Fingon’s shoulder, hiding in the side of his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair. He was drifting off already, blinking sluggishly. He felt no need to say anything, but one question nagged at him, perhaps only in this moment of vulnerability: “How was I so lucky?”

“Tye melin, Nelyafinwë Maitimo. Tenn’ Ambar-metta.” Fingon snuggled in close to his lover, relishing the heat that radiated from him and the face that, even drifting in and out of consciousness, Maedhros drew him near and entwined them together. Fingon held Maedhros close, and felt himself tearing up. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

Fingon wasn’t answering his question, but that was all right, because Fingon would be there in the morning, would be there forever. He could ask later. He nuzzled against Fingon’s neck, pulling him impossibly closer. “Love—you—” he whispered, pressing kisses to the skin he could reach. “I will not live without you,” he vowed.

“I would never leave you,” Fingon replied, carding his fingers through Maedhros’ hair as his eyelids grew heavier and his pulse and breathing slowed to match Maedhros’. “I am yours, remember?” Fingon curled into his lover, trying to get impossibly close and clinging to Maedhros as his anchor as he felt the world begin to drift away.

Maedhros shifted until every inch of their bodies were touching. The possibility—as a possibility—a distant paranoia—of life without Fingon threatened at the edge, threatening to break his otherwise perfect calm, but Fingon pushed it away by holding him tightly. “As I am yours,” he echoed, and knew no more beyond comfort and darkness and the presence of Findekáno.


	12. Chapter 12

Fingon woke feeling warm throughout. Maedhros’ arm was thrown over him, and each breath released a gentle puff of air against Fingons’ neck. Strong, tall legs were also wrapped around him, pinning him to Maedhros the way the Ambarussa would cling to a favored toy throughout the night. He stretched slightly, and tried to shift, his back protesting both the action and the previous position he had been in. Slowly he wormed his way around until he could relax back against Maedhros’ arm, lying on his back and facing the ceiling. He smiled, glancing over at his cousin, who slept peacefully beside him, stray hairs escaping his braid to frame his face.

Maedhros woke as Fingon squirmed in his arms. He woke slowly, comfortably, blinking against the bright treelight coming in at the windows. He wondered vaguely where he was, but he was warm and comfortable and with Fingon, so it didn’t matter. “Morning, melda,” he said, and then coughed: his voice felt overused, or overwrought, or both. Memories from the night returned, slowly. “Last night—” he stammered, unable to go on.

Fingon tensed slightly, hoping with his entire being that Maedhros was not upset or regretful in the cold light of day. “Melda,” Fingon murmured, his arm reaching out to cling to Maedhros. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, brow tightening as he tried to find anything wrong with— “No. It was—perfect. You carried me?” he slid over the top of Fingon, eyes searching his for signs of pain or distress.

“You’ve carried me so many times—I think it was about time for me to return the favor.” Fingon smiled at him, worry vanishing. “Besides, I was the reason you were in no fit state to walk. And,” he added, teasing, “I know how you get about cleanliness.” He reached forward to peck Maedhros on the lips. “Are you well? Did you sleep alright, and do you feel alright?”

Maedhros beamed, curls falling down about his face. “I cannot recall a night I slept better or deeper. I remember no dreams but they must have been filled with you, for they were pleasant.” He kissed Fingon deeply before pulling back. “And—and I don’t know what you did to me—I—I’m sorry if I did anything—scared you?” He wasn’t sure he had, but it was best to make sure. “I—it was—overwhelming, for me, and wonderful.” He suddenly realized he should have thought about this more before trying to talk through it.

Fingon’s forehead creased. “You didn’t scare me. My only concern was if that was what you really wanted—that you were not going along with my desires purely to please me. I—you don’t know? I don’t understand, melda, though I’m glad it was wonderful. Everything we did was incredible and pleasing for me as well.”

Maedhros nodded. “Yes, absolutely. You speak with great wisdom, my love,” he said, pushing strands of hair back from Fingon’s face. “I knew only that I wanted you with all of my hröa and all of my fëa, Findekáno. I—” he huffed a laugh, “I felt hypnotized, under a spell, unable to move—or perhaps unwilling to. For what desire could I have when you took care of my every need? Though I admit—not being in control of the situation, much less myself, was strange for me,” he added with a slight blush. “Though not unpleasant.” He kissed Fingon again, pressing himself to him.

“I’ve never seen you like that,” Fingon admitted. “It was… the greatest honor to know that you trusted me enough to let go. And if it was to your liking that is an experience I would gladly repeat.” He swallowed and took a breath, locking eyes with Maedhros. “And—if you are willing—I would very much like to find myself on the other end of that some night, utterly undone and left in your capable hands.” He ran a hand across Maedhros face, watching him closely. “Truly, all of it was good?” he asked. “Even the strange bits?”

Maedhros’ breath hitched at Fingon’s words of honor and trust. That was correct, but it also seemed baser than that, more fundamental (but that made no sense, so he gave it up for now). “Truly, it was,” he answered. “I have never been like that, so—” he frowned, “helpless,” because that was the wrong word, but he continued, “with anyone, ever, at least within waking memory. With anyone else I would have been highly uncomfortable. With anyone else it might have broken the spell. But with you—it almost did not seem strange at all, but natural.” He laughed shyly. “I am not making much sense, am I?”

Fingon shook his head. “I was not quite so far gone, but I was well on my way earlier last night.” He blushed faintly. “I would willing give my body over to you, and enjoy your care and ministrations. Perhaps I will not fully understand until you have taken me as far as you were, but… your words make sense. And are immensely gratifying.” He leaned in to kiss Maedhros again. “Though I would never call you helpless, Russ.” He linked his fingers with his cousin’s, squeezing their hands.

Maedhros pressed their noses together and laughed again. “Until last night I would have been insulted if you had. But come, turn over. Let me see if I can repay your kindness from last night—if you strained your back on my account, the least I can do is give you a massage.” Heaving himself up on hands and knees, he nudged Fingon over.

Fingon gave him a lopsided grin, moving willingly. “It was well worth the effort, even if I didn’t have the pleasure of your hands on me this morning.” He groaned at the heavy weight of Maedhros’ hands on him. “Love your hands, Russ. Oh! And Russ—have I told you how much I love you today?”

Maedhros chuckled, kissing the back of Fingon’s neck as he worked his hands up and down his lover’s spine and low on his back. “You do not need to tell me. Nevertheless I love hearing it. And I love you, as well.” He guided Fingon’s arms up over his head, under the pillow, to have access to his entire shoulder and the muscles under his arms. “Mm, you are very handsome, you know. Have I told you that today?” He traced the outline of muscles on Fingon’s broad shoulders. Maybe he should not have been so surprised that Fingon had carried him.

Fingon flushed and grinned at the praise. “I’m glad you find my hröa pleasing.” He groaned deeply as hands dug into his back, beginning to work out knots he had not realized existed. “Feels amazing,” he mumbled into the pillow, relaxing under the steady hands of his cousin. “Talk to me, Russ, please? Tell me what you’re thinking of on this beautiful, perfect morning?”

“You,” Maedhros answered automatically. “And how I wish this time together could last until the end of the world. Barring this unrealistic expectation, I hope we can stay in bed for some time until hunger draws us forth. Then we will take food with grandfather—I will endure his teasing—” he added with a laugh, “and we could take a picnic out to the hills. Or down to the lake. Or come back to bed.”

“Hmm—they all sound wonderful.” He thrust a hand backward to swat at Maedhros playfully. “And don’t tempt me, or we’ll never get out of bed.” He hissed as Maedhros began to work his lower back, which had in truth pained him as he woke. “’s wonderful,” he praised. “Feels like I could melt into the bed right now.”

Maedhros hummed a snatch of a tune of Maglor’s invention as he worked the muscles there. “I suppose it would not help if I did this—” And with that he laid out flat on top of Fingon, bearing all his weight down on him and laughing rather evilly as he pressed most of the air from his cousin’s chest.

“Russ!” Fingon yelped. His immediate reaction died away, however, as he relaxed into the bed, surrounded by Maedhros’ heat and the comfort of his blanketing form. He groaned, pressing back into Maedhros lightly before sinking down in bliss. “’s perfect, melda,” he whispered, eyes sliding shut. “Feels good, safe, protected. I like having you on top of me.”

Maedhros smiled: he was already smiling, though, and instead kissed Fingon’s hair. “I like being on top of you,” he said, a slight edge of a growl in his voice. “But then, I like almost anything I can do with you.” He pondered a moment. “Cleaning out the forge at the end of the month: a horrible bore, backbreaking work, and filthy—with you, it is, well, almost pleasant.” He winked as he let Fingon up.

Fingon huffed. “Glad to know my company can make your chores almost pleasant.” He rolled onto his back, tugging Maedhros back down on top of him and staring up at his lover. He pushed himself up, snaking an arm around Maedhros’ neck and reaching up to kiss him. “Good morning.” He kissed him again, grinning. He felt relaxed and light and so very happy. “It’s early, Russ, what do you want to do? Or… I have an idea, if you’re not sure…”

Maedhros’ eyes twinkled. “Oh? What is this idea, then, my prince?”

“Would you… would you pleasure yourself for me?” His eyes darted across Maedhros’ body, finally locking eyes with him.

Maedhros balked. “I, uh—” His mouth went suddenly dry, and he licked his lips. “W-while you watch?” He drew back shyly, though he felt something stir interestedly in him.

“I would like to see what you find most pleasing, and how you choose to touch yourself.” He shrugged one shoulder, looking towards the window. “And I think it would be extremely arousing to see. I’m sure you paint a picture far too beautiful for the eyes of the Eldar, yet I would look on it if you allowed.” He coughed, slightly. “Of course, we don’t have to—I am happy doing anything with you.”

“Um.” All right, that was definitely a twitch of interest he felt, but he blushed brightly. “I would be too embarrassed,” he protested, pressing his face to the pillow next to Fingon’s head.

Fingon stroked his fingers through Maedhros’ hair gently, rubbing small circles into his scalp. He turned to kiss his lover’s cheek, taking care to keep his movements soft and gentle. “We don’t have to Russ, if you don’t want to. But I swear you will have nothing to be embarrassed about. I love you, melda heru. And you are most handsome. I would gladly worship your hröa.” He pressed an open mouthed kiss against Maedhros’ shoulder. “Seeing you like that—seeing you bring yourself to the edge- you would be beautiful, Russ.” Fingon laughed a little as his body moved against his will. “Do you see what just the thought is doing to me?”

Maedhros laughed, biting his lip as he resurfaced. “Well—if you’ll join me…” he said cautiously, though his blush was still hot. “Ah, how do you—where do you want me?”

“I, um—uh.” Fingon, hesitated. “I won’t look like you,” he warned. “I’ve perhaps two thirds of your muscle, Russ, and am hardly well formed. But… um, if you want… perhaps you can go first and… then if you still want to watch me I wouldn’t deny you. As for where, you could just lie here… unless you prefer to kneel on the bed, or stand, or… I guess there’s a chair.” He shrugged. “If you’re willing to let me see a—a most private act—I certainly won’t tell you how to go about it.”

Convinced this flush would never fade from his cheeks (indeed it had spread to his ears and his chest now), Maedhros crawled off Fingon and knelt on the bed, taking himself in hand (he was already half-hard), before letting go again. “I, ah—” he looked up at Fingon for support. “I’m afraid it will look silly,” he said, more explanation than excuse.

Fingon rose to his knees as well, and leaned in to kiss his lover. “It won’t,” he promised as he pulled back. “You’re beautiful, melda. So impossibly beautiful. And just look at me—do you see what you’ve already done to me, my Russandol?”

Maedhros nodded, seeing Fingon already rising. He would have rathered Fingon touching him like this, but it was what Fingon wanted, so he took hold of himself again, toying with the skin experimentally before oiling his hand. Taking a deep, calming breath, and closing his eyes, he thought of the previous night, of Fingon’s power over him that he had never realized before and which put him in such a state last night (and he imagined that it was still being exerted even now, that maybe he could pretend he was being ordered to do this), and stroked himself to full hardness. His breath caught, and he opened his eyes, seeking approval.

Fingon braced his hands against his thighs, and soon found himself rubbing them up and down though he refused them leave to move elsewhere. He ached watching Maedhros pleasure himself with closed eyes, lost to the feelings brought by his own hand. Fingon bit his lip, focusing on taking deep, even breaths and not throwing himself upon Maedhros. And then his cousin looked at him, as though he wanted Fingon to tell him it was all right. “Russ,” he breathed. “Valar, Russ. You are—“ he shook his head. “How can I ever bear to look at anything other than you, my light?” Maedhros’ breath caught, and Fingon could not keep from voicing his curiosity. “What are you thinking of, melda, when you close your eyes, when you touch yourself? What is it that brings you closer to release?”

“Mm,” Maedhros struggled with this a moment, feeling his entire body break out in goosepimples, though he was not cold. Performing such an act in front of Fingon was hard enough–but now he wanted him to talk about it, too? Maedhros would, of course, be lying if he denied how it affected him, how it stole his breath, how he was so hard it was almost painful—but— “Y-you,” he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “And, um—” A million lies ran through his head (and half-truths like ‘I would have you touching me instead’), but “and your power over me,” he blurted out.

Fingon groaned, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he tried to speak. “No more—no more than your power over me.” He bit his lips briefly as his eyes focused on Maedhros’ hand moving over his sex. “I would follow you anywhere, my prince.” He stayed silent, watching as Maedhros moved closer to the edge. And as he watched, he only wanted to know more, his own need pulsing through him and setting his heart racing. “What—what else, Russ? What else drives you? On long lonely nights what brings you to release and leaves you satiated and ready to sleep?”

Maedhros’ breath hitched, and he struggled to keep his voice measured as lust began clouding his vision. “I imagine—your m-mouth on me, and, and I imagine driving you as mad with desire as I am, pressing you down, making you beg for me—” This probably wasn’t making any sense. “But when I’m very close I—it becomes me begging for you.” His eyes were focused down, red tangles framing his face, hiding it.

Moaning, Fingon started to reach out to Maedhros, but stilled his hand before it reached him. “Valar, Russ—I—you, passion becomes you, my love.” He looked at Maedhros, desiring him but checking himself that he might watch Maedhros come undone by his own hand. “You don’t need to hide.” His own breathing was stuttered as he watched his lover’s abs shuddering and his chest heaving with desperate breaths, and Maedhros’ hand—still holding himself, still driving his body forward into pleasure. “So beautiful, melda. At this moment, I think you do outshine the Trees.”

And when Maedhros’ head remained lowered, staring at the sheet in front of him, Fingon could bear it no longer. He leaned forward, bringing his finger and thumb to his lover’s chin, and tilted it up so that their eyes met. “Russ,” he whispered breathily, adoringly. He no longer watched Maedhros’ hand at work lower on his body—instead his eyes were caught and trapped by the expressions flitting across his lover’s face.

Maedhros gasped for air in earnest, now, as if Fingon was stealing all the air from the room, frozen in shock and adoration as Fingon held his chin up. And now his hand worked without thought, without care for how he must look, because he was caught in that gaze with Fingon’s eyes upon him, and suddenly nothing else mattered. “Findekáno—” he whispered, but before he even finished the name he spilled his seed all over his hand and the bed—and Fingon—and he cried out softly, and teetered forward, eyes still locked on Fingon’s.

Fingon’s hands flew out to brace Maedhros’ shoulders and keep him upright. He threw his head back, unable to look anymore, back arching and eyes closing in a different sort of ecstasy as Maedhros finished spilling across him. He shuddered, feeling cleansed, bathed in this offering his betrothed had given him. “Russ,” he whispered. “My prince—thank you. Thank you. I—I have no words. Thank you.”

“Ah—wait,” he said, embarrassed (or aroused) (or both) by his stain on Fingon’s legs and belly. “Let me,” he said, still muddled with lust and crawling forward and pressing Fingon back to the bed. “Let me clean you.” And with that he bent to lick a long wet stripe up Fingon’s sex, ending by licking some of his own seed (disgusting, really: he disliked how he tasted, especially compared to Fingon) from off his body. “I-is this all right?” he asked, suddenly remembering there was something else they were meant to do, only he was hungry…

Fingon quivered at the touch, and looking down he could not help but touch Maedhros, stroking across his head and pulling his hair back. “Is this all right? Am I yet male?” he asked incredulously. Then, almost reluctantly, though he shuddered with the embarrassing thought of doing that of touching himself before Maedhros- and when his lover was spent and wholly focused on him. He whimpered, pulling Maedhros’ head back to look at him. “B-but Russ, I can’t—I don’t,” he looked away, blushing. “I can’t last with you like that. You drive me to—I just can’t. If you still—if you want to see me, to watch me doing that for you—pleasuring myself—you have to stop now.”

“Later—” Maedhros begged. “I hunger for you—please—” he gasped, pulling lightly against where Fingon held him by the hair, desiring only to descend upon his flesh and be given permission to roam freely over it.

“Please,” Fingon whispered, hand tightening in Maedhros’ hair, but giving him leave to move down again. He ached and he needed and the things Maedhros’ could do to them, even when they were not touching, were almost unbelievable. Now he loved the warm glide of Maedhros’ tongue, and the heat and weight of his arms and body. Fingon arched against him, needed more, and managed to grab one of Maedhros’ hands, linking their fingers together as he pressed them into the bed. “Please, melda. Pease, Russ. What you do to me…” He shook his head against the pillow, voice dropping into whimpers and moans.

Maedhros held both Fingon’s hands, linking their fingers as he lathed at the area, first cleaning, then pleasuring. He did not need his hands for this. “Valar, Findekáno, you taste so good,” he moaned, before setting to his task in earnest. He let the sounds Fingon made lull him into a rhythm, before he tried what he had before been too concerned with: he swallowed Fingon deeply until his hardness struck the back of his throat. His eyes watered, and he gagged, but took him deeper still, swallowing around him once before he had to pull back. “Sorry,” he said, and tried again.

“Ungh! OH—Russ!” Fingon choked on his breath as Maedhros took him deep, desperately trying to resist the urge to thrust, even as his lover gagged around him. His mind blanked when Maedhros swallowed around him. “Valar, Russ! I can’t—you feel so good, beloved. I can’t—” he broke off as Maedhros took him into his mouth again, this time more prepared for Fingon to slide down his throat. Fingon squeezed Maedhros’ hands as though they were the only thing holding him to reality. “R-Russ, Russ…” He looked down, eyes catching Maedhros just as he took him into his throat and swallowed. Fingon’s entire body arched against him, taut from his neck to his feet as he drowned in the sensation of Russ’ smooth, wet, hot, constricting throat moving around him. “Russ!” He whimpered the name, his head raised, unable to take his eyes off of his lover.

Maedhros moaned as his throat relaxed, welcoming Fingon to the hilt as though he belonged there. I love you, he wanted to say, but he was already saying it, and he moved his head up and down counter to Fingon’s ever more erratic thrusts. He wanted to taste him: in this moment, he wanted nothing more in the world.

Fingon’s hands shifted, desperate to touch, to hold, to wind themselves in Maedhros’ hair if nothing more, but his lover’s firm grip pinned them back to the bed before they had moved more than an inch. “Russ!” He whined, hips moving without conscious thought desperate to find more of that tight wet heat and constricting throat. “Russs. Need to—need to finish. Pleease!” Maedhros moaned again, deep in his throat, and Fingon fell back to the bed, back arched and fingers with a white knuckled grip on Maedhros’ hands. He called Maedhros’ name once in warning, and then he was over the edge, shaking, hips continuing their aborted thrusts as he poured himself into his lover. Maedhros worked him, moaning as though this were every bit as pleasurable for him as it was for Fingon, until Fingon relaxed, every drop pulled from him, hands now linked with Maedhros’ loosely.

As it happened, Maedhros had to pull back to swallow what didn’t shoot down his throat, and it was glorious and—Fingon, it tasted like Fingon, the way he smelled. His throat was raw as he pulled off, after sucking Fingon dry and clean, but he immediately settled over the top of his body, holding and grounding his cousin as he continued to twitch and moan, and: “Tyë melin, Findekáno. I love you.” Now they were both exhausted again, and neither moved for some time, dozing in each others’ arms, and morning drew on until the light of the trees shone in brightly enough to wake them again.

Fingon woke in Maedhros’ arms a second time, listening to the sound of birds outside the window and feeling comfortably warm with the heat of the sun and Maedhros’ blanketing form, though their sheets were bunched at the foot of the bed. He hummed, trying to stretch when he felt Maedhros’, lying on top of him, shifting as well. He smiled at finding himself pinned by Maedhros’ strong frame. “G’d morning again, melda,” he mumbled, arms reaching around Maedhros and squeezing. “Tyë melin.”

Maedhros started, lifting his head from where it rested low on Fingon’s chest. “Oh. I didn’t mean to sleep,” he said. He grinned, and wiped his mouth self-consciously. “We should go to breakfast.”

Fingon leaned down to steal a kiss. “We should.” He gave Maedhros a grin. “But I can’t move right now. You’ve got me stuck.”

“As I would have you,” Maedhros grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to his belly. “But Grandfather will worry—or worse, come looking for us.” He laughed, though the thought mortified him, and he pressed himself up, sliding off Fingon and off the bed to stagger towards clothes.

Spine tingling at Maedhros’ first statement, Fingon sat up, stretching. “He would,” warned. “Pass me something decent?” he asked, though he stood and moved to join Maedhros by the closet. And, as he watched his lover stagger, “are you alright?”

Maedhros nodded, moving to sit on the bed as he pulled leggings on before going to the drawers to find Fingon something to wear, and selecting complementary colors to what he wore. “Here,” he said, tossing them on the bed as he pulled a long tunic over his head.

“Thanks.” Fingon dressed quickly, and a glance in the mirror showed that his hair remained fairly untangled. He stepped up behind Maedhros as he finished dressing and wrapped his arms around him, leaning against him. “Ready?”

“If you continue to hold me like this, I will never be ready to leave,” Maedhros mused, laying his hands over Fingon’s arms. Then he coughed: his voice was unusually gravelly. He pulled back from Fingon and, turning, kissed his hair. “Shall we go?” he asked, and pushed the door open.

“As you wish.” Fingon followed after him, sliding his hand into his cousin’s as they made their way down the hall, heading towards breakfast and their grandfather.


	13. Chapter 13

When they entered the dining area, Finwë was already seated, reading from a book with three others spread before him, a small plate holding a fruit and a pastry to one side, though he had not yet touched the main portions of breakfast. He glanced up, placing a ribbon in the book and shutting it. “Good day,” He said, raising an eyebrow at the two of them. “Dare I ask how the two of you are this morn?”

“I’m sorry we’re late, Grandfather,” Maedhros said, bowing his head and waiting at his place. “We overslept,” he explained, which was mostly true, and though his voice cracked slightly and he coughed, he kept his face neutral.

Finwë smiled knowingly and motioned for them to sit. “I was just about to begin. Are you hungry, Findekáno?”

“Starving,” Fingon said with a smile, ignoring Maedhros’ tension and sliding into a seat close to his grandfather. “And I’m… positively wonderful. How are you this morn? And what are working on?”

Finwë handed him one of the books. “Going through references, mostly, and looking at maps and journals of travels north. I was hoping to find some references that you might be able to use both for their information or as guides for the texts the two of you were looking to create.” He paused for a moment, fingers tracing over another tome. “I sometimes find it strange that as long as we’ve been here, there are so many areas, and so near, that have not been explored.” He sighed. “It is likely your father,” here he addressed Maedhros, “who has seen the most of Aman of all the Eldar—though perhaps someday the two of you shall surpass him and document your adventures… it would be a worthy goal, if it were to your liking.”

Maedhros smiled as he served first Fingon and then his grandfather before filling his own plate. “Indeed, a worthy goal. We’ll need a few centuries to surpass him—but he enjoys the forge and learning more than exploring these days, I think. So we might stand a chance.” He smiled at Fingon, and cleared his throat again, and reached for a cup of tea.

“Something caught in your throat?” Finwë asked innocently. “You know, you really should take a glass of water to bed with you—have a few sips before you turn in. Going to sleep with something else in your throat,” Fingon snorted, though Finwë carried on over him, “can lead to a nasty cough—rather like the one you have at the moment.” Fingon glanced at Maedhros, trying to gauge his reaction.

Maedhros pressed his lips together, feeling himself turning red, and he stared at his plate. The tea eased his throat only slightly, but enough to answer, “I, ah, I do not think that that is the problem.”

“Even if it’s not, it’s good advice to keep in mind,” Fingon pointed out, enjoying his own sip of tea before he began loading his plate. “What plans did you have for the day, Grandfather? We were thinking of heading back to the library—I’d like to get a few more sketches of the area done, and ink the others as you had suggested.”

“That rather depends if you’re up to it, I think, Findekáno,” Finwë said, the twinkle in his eye positively wicked. “Between you both sleeping nearly all day away this morning, and Maedhros’ cries last night, I hardly think you’ll but up to much of—”

“Grandfather!” Maedhros protested in mortification.

Fingon quickly considered his two options—trying to defend his cousin’s ‘honor’ or teasing his grandfather and lover back. A small part of him sighed, wondering if he were not in spirit more the brother of Celegorm and Ambarussa rather than Turgon. “It’s alright, Russandol.” He patted his thigh placating. “That just means I’m doing my job well. And we were up this morning,” he added, turning to his grandfather. “We just… er, decided to go back to sleep again. And I’m up for anything good or ill that my betrothed desires—where he leads I shall follow.” He nodded, munching on a piece of bacon as he leaned over the table to snatch a pastry from the far side.

“Findekáno!” Maedhros squeaked, and put a hand at his throat, deciding that his voice was probably more incriminating than his protests, and indeed, Finwë laughed:

“It’s all about technique, I think, Maitimo. That, and alcohol, to numb the throat. It’s what I hear, anyway,” he said with a wink.

“I thought you were offering advice on pain, Grandfather—Maitimo will never have complaints on his, ah, technique.” Fingon took a long drink, almost wishing he had a glass of wine in hand. “If you were listening to us last night—which it sounds like you were,” he carefully didn’t consider that too closely, “you’re already well aware of that.”

“How could I not? With Nelyo wailing like a skinned cat at all hours. At least I assume it was Nelyo.”

“How in all Arda to you know what a skinned cat sounds like?” Maedhros demanded.

“Well, you take the sound of a disgruntled cat—like that time a much younger Turko threw one in the pool, then again, he’d probably still do that today—multiply it by a thousand, throw in some high pitched and pained mewling, and there you have it—what probably equates to skinned cat sounds and does equate to Russandol in passion,” Finwë said this quickly, and without hesitation, and Fingon blinked at him in amazement.

“Grandfather, I like how Russandol sounds,” Fingon protested. “And I wouldn’t compare him to a tortured animal… just… passionate and intense. Which aren’t bad things at all.”

“I—” Maedhros protested, but he was primarily in shock, and sat stunned, gripping his fork, mouth flapping. He could look neither of them in the eye, and swallowed carefully.

Fingon’s smile dropped as he realized Maedhros truly looked distressed. “Russ?” He reached out to squeeze his thigh. Meeting Finwë’s eyes for a moment and receiving a slight nod, he leaned over, brushing Maedhros’ hair back to whisper in his ear, keeping a gentle grip on his leg. “I told you this morning, beloved, you are beautiful to me in all ways. And you’ve seen exactly what your passion does to me. Grandfather’s just teasing, Russ—I would gladly listen to you for a thousand years, and spend another thousand just watching you, should you make me wait so long before granting to me as much as a single kiss.” He kissed the side of his jaw briefly. “You are handsome, and beautiful, and my perfect betrothed, and I adore you Nelyafinwë Maitimo.”

Maedhros shifted uncomfortably: between the teasing and the praise he was quite overwhelmed. “I—” he managed to look up at Fingon and flash him a small smile. “Sorry,” he laughed, and squirmed away from Fingon as if his breath tickled him. “Now you’re teasing me as well!” He tossed down his fork and exaggeratedly folded his arms, like Curvo did when he wasn’t getting his way. “I confess I feel baited, Grandfather! You say you encourage us to be together to heal the rift in your family, but really I think all you wish to do is gossip!”

“I encourage you to be together because you belong together. I hope that this may prove the impetus needed to heal our family. And if, for you to be together, I must lose a few hours sleep listening to Findekáno shouting your name and desperate pleas to the stars, and then a few more listening to you crying out, largely in no known tongue of man or beast, so be it. I can certainly do with a bit more time reading, and I have never been overly fond of sleep.” He looked over his mug at Maedhros. “If I am to listen to noises that do, Fin, resembled a skinned cat—whatever your biased view of them is—then forgive me if I feel the need to tease.”

“And I suppose,” Maedhros returned, growing suddenly bold, though his voice retained just enough teasing to be permissible, “if, for us to be together, I must endure your ceaseless taunting, then so be it!”

“It’s not my teasing you should be worried about, if I correctly heard the bits of Quenya you were shouting last night,” Finwë replied primly. “Findekáno—do make sure you don’t actually kill my firstborn’s firstborn. I quite like him.”

“I more than quite like him.” Fingon smiled softly at Maedhros. “And if, for a time, Russandol entrusts himself to me, I would never dishonor or betray that trust; no harm shall ever befall my betrothed by my hand or by my will.”

Maedhros rolled his eyes at his grandfather, but squeezed Fingon’s hand in his lap. “I think you’ll find, even when unmade by Findekáno, I am yet composed of sterner stuff than you guess!” (This was a lie: he was reduced to nothing when unmade by Fingon).

Fingon bit his tongue on a reply. As he had hinted before that he desired the same treatment from his lover, he had no desire to say something on this topic that he would be made to regret. He simply squeezed Maedhros’ hand back and smiled.

“Hmph. Perhaps. In any case, the library for a few hours after breakfast, and then please tell me the two of you will head outdoors—I’ll insist on it if I have to.” Finwë eyed them both. “Elves your age should be enjoying the sun and the wilds, especially when your fathers have given you both a few days rest.”

“We shall have to leave the house, if we are to have any peace,” Maedhros shot a playful challenge at his beloved grandfather. “We shall have to keep our destination a secret,” he added, nudging Fingon as he began to tuck into his breakfast, appetite regained.

Fingon smirked at him, toeing off a shoe and running his foot up Maedhros calf as he ate. “It can be another adventure—though without our younger cousins. Russ, don’t forget to bring your sketch to the library—I’ll need to ink that too.” He looked to Finwë. “What plans have you for the day?” Maedhros stiffened slightly, but managed to let Fingon’s advances slide without reacting.

“I will ride out to meet Indis and your mother, Nelyo, on their way back from Anairë’s. I shan’t leave until I am sure you are out of the house, and just as a point of reference we won’t be home any earlier than dinnertime. And there is a good chance dinner might go late enough I would insist upon you staying one more night. The situation with beds might indeed again be dire, and you would be forced to share a room.” Finwë winked, finished his breakfast, and stood. “I am off to prepare for the journey.”

“Well, that went well.” Fingon smiled at Maedhros. He dropped his foot back to work it into his shoes, but slid his hand higher on, and further inside, Maedhros’ thigh.

“It could have gone better,” Maedhros said, deflating as he grabbed Fingon’s wrist weakly.

“Grandfather likes to tease, Russ. Just tease back—I shouldn’t say that, because I’ll probably end up as the center of the next series of jokes, but…” he shrugged. “Shall we head to the library, or are you not quite finished?” Maedhros’ hold on him was weak, and he slid his hand further in, and up, gently cupping his lover even as he continued to sip at his tea above the table. “You know I enjoyed last night, do you not?” he added, voice serious. “No matter how grandfather teases—or how I tease—please do not doubt that.”

Maedhros hissed, giving up on eating as well as on holding Fingon back, letting his eyes slide closed. The entire ordeal had been exhausting, and he was perhaps yet under Fingon’s spell. “Uhh—I—I know,” he whispered, biting his lip and hoping no servants came into the room just yet.

“We should head to the library, Russ,” Fingon said, eyes watching his lover lazily as Fingon squeezed his hand around him. “But all I want to do is get on my knees for you, right under the dining table… at the very least it would give you some fond memories to think back on during any tense formal family meals here, or times when grandfather’s teasing gets to be a bit much.” His eyes slid half-shut. “Tell me, melda, you broke apart for me before—could you sit there instead looking entirely calm while I brought you over the edge, so that if anyone were to happen by they would notice nothing unusual—just the firstborn prince of Fëanáro enjoying the last of his tea and meal?”

“I, ah—” Maedhros panted, then gripped his goblet with purpose. “I might,” he said, “if you wanted me to.” His eyes flicked to meet Fingon’s, part in question, part in challenge.

Fingon blinked. “… If you’d like.” He raised his hand to cup Maedhros’ cheek. “Stop me at any time if you want to, love, alright?” He pressed their lips together, and then slid to his knees gracefully, ducking under the table to position himself between Maedhros’ legs. Aware that their time would be limited before servants did arrive to being clearing the platters, he immediately set to work on his cousin’s trousers with nimble fingers. “Valar, Russ,” he murmured, knuckles brushing against him as he worked. “So hard, already? Somehow I don’t think you’re just doing this because I wanted to.”

Maedhros shivered. “How could you think I do not want you, after enduring all that because of my love for you?” he gasped. “And then you continue to tease me—as you would if this entire table was filled with people.” He gulped. “I must be better at h-hiding my—my—for diplomatic reasons—” He set his jaw.

Fingon laughed, lightly. “Of course,” he nodded. “For diplomatic reasons.” And before Maedhros had a chance to respond, he lowered his head, taking his lover in his mouth. He thought about what Maedhros had done to him that morning, about how easy it had been to undo him, and on his first descent he moved his head lower, until he felt Maedhros brushing against the back of his throat. He swallowed him down, throat working around him, hands clenching on Maedhros’ hips. He gagged a little, pulled back for air, and tried a second time.

“Ahh-haaahhnnnuuuhh,” Maedhros groaned, hands sliding up Fingon’s hands to his shoulders, but there he stopped. Breathing harshly through his nose, his hips shifting, legs sliding apart, Maedhros clenched his fists before carefully laying them on top of the table, flat, forcing himself to calm, even as everything in him focused on what Fingon’s mouth was doing to him.

Thumbs rubbing small circles into his lover’s flesh, Fingon focused his attention on trying to Maedhros deeper, longer. Looking up at Maedhros, he took a deep breath, eyes watering, and finally took Maedhros in until his nose was pressed into his lover’s abdomen and he could go no further. He moaned around him, the sound muffled, though it sent vibrations through his throat and mouth.

Maedhros’ hips jerked, but the groan aborted into a cough, and he pulled the goblet to his mouth to hide his flushed cheeks. He almost wished for a voyeur—for scientific purposes, entirely—to tell him how well he was doing: though he knew the answer himself. Sweat trickled down his temple, and his breathing was uneven, moans and whines barely contained. He could see nothing but bright light. Perhaps if the room was full of people and activity, he might escape detection, but— “Oh, Findekáno!” his hissed, stomach tightening as he leaned forward over the table.

Fingon pulled back, using his weight to press Maedhros’ hips back into the chair when they tried to chase him. “You’re supposed to be collected looking, Russ,” he reminded him. “And I’m not here, remember? Diplomatic training, and all. This just a new sort of lesson…” He waited for Maedhros to sit up again, holding back though he sorely wanted Maedhros back in his mouth, strong thighs surrounding him and his face pressed up against his lover’s tensing stomach.

Maedhros breathed carefully through his nose again, and set his jaw, and sat up. He balled his hands into fists at his sides and left them there. “Yes, yes,” he whispered. “I am sorry. You’re right.” He could hold back. Though Finwë’s fears might well come true: this might kill him.

Fingon patted his side gently, and cupped his fists for a moment, before sliding his hands back to Maedhros’ thighs. He pushed them slightly further apart, and returned to his task, head bowed over his cousin’s lap. He counted in his head, trying to lengthen the time he could keep Maedhros’ in his throat before pulling back to breathe.

“If I must take care to breathe carefully,” Maedhros said, voice gravelly but even, “so must you, Findekáno,” he said, and for all the world he might have been speaking to him at dinner with everyone else around them. “Also,” he stated flatly, paused to breathe, to not move, every muscle locked down, “I am very–very close.” It might almost have been amusing if he was not driven nearly to distraction.

Fingon laughed around him, coming up far enough to take several deep breaths through his nose. He retreated further, providing a new sensation as he scraped his teeth along Maedhros, and followed the unexpected sensation by plunging down again, moaning with his face pressed to Maedhros’ skin.

When Maedhros came, it was with a twitch and a hitch of breath, but no other reaction, except that, as Fingon pumped him through his finish, his eyes slid closed, and he sighed, going limp against the back of the chair. “Ai, Findekáno,” he whispered, laying his hand on Fingon’s head. “Did I pass the test?”

Fingon smiled, pressing his head back into Maedhros’ hand as he carefully tucked him away, and laced him up. “Ai, indeed,” he whispered, unable to put into words the emotion he felt looking at his lover, relaxed and spent and completely trusting. He shook his head. “Hmm, I don’t know whether to tell you that you were brilliant, or to say that needed some work so that we’ll have a reason to practice.” Fingon clambered to his feet, adjusting himself discretely as he moved behind Maedhros’ chair to drop his chin over his shoulder, and wrap his arms around his neck for a brief hug. “To the library?” He asked brightly.

Maedhros grabbed Fingon by the front of his shirt and yanked him down into a deep, hungry kiss. “The next time we do something like this in here,” he whispered when he broke for air, “I would have you bent over the table with your trousers round your ankles and me behind you.”

Fingon whimpered, and nodded wordlessly, hands clutching at Maedhros’ sleeves. Hearing sounds coming from the hall, he stepped back, and turned to head to the library, where Finwë had set a table aside for them with pens, papers, and their work from two days prior out for them.


	14. Chapter 14

Maedhros followed along behind Fingon, tugging his trousers up and grabbing a pastry to stuff into his mouth, closing the door behind him just as the servants made their way in to clear away the dishes. “There is a table here, Findekáno,” he whispered, with promise and no small amount of teasing in his voice. “But I suppose we must use that for work,” he added, whispering: “but fear not that I have other plans for you.” He winked then as he opened up the tomes to where he had bookmarked them earlier.

Fingon shook his head with a slight shiver and dropped into his seat, carefully preparing a working space. He laid out his previous sketches—all but the one of Maedhros, which he would get from him after he had finished the first drawings. After setting up a crystal with a steady glow and checking that the inks he wished to use worked well with Finwë’s paper, he began inking. The process was steady, deliberate, and almost a form of meditation. For a time he was able to lose himself in the careful motions, bringing new depth to his original sketches and focusing on nothing but line and pen and parchment.

“Here,” Maedhros said, pencilling out an area from one of the books and sliding the parchment onto Fingon’s desk. “Ink that one—and I have a rougher sketch here which we’ll take with us. This hill looks like it might be surveyed in one afternoon, and we could fill in the white spaces.”

Then, as Fingon worked, Maedhros got a new sheet of paper out and began a light sketch of Fingon drawing. With the light streaming in behind him he looked positively holy, and before he knew it Maedhros had given the picture of Fingon wings and a star on his brow, and now he was smithing instead of drawing, his brow pinched slightly in concentration and just the tip of his tongue showing—

“Russ?” Maedhros’ tongue retracted a moment later as he looked up. Fingon smiled, sticking his tongue out at him. “Here—this one’s finished. I’ll start putting these on a side table to dry.” He indicated his previously inked drawings, which were starting to sprawl across their workspace. “Did you have another you want me to do, or shall I start a few new pictures from the western side of the lake in our valley?”

“Uh, I—” Maedhros looked up, then back down at his drawing. Now it just looked foolish and fanciful and, awkward upon awkward, the Fingon of his drawing was working at his father’s work station! With his father’s tools, and— “No, nothing. I was distracted,” Maedhros said hurriedly, smearing his hand across the page. “Yes, I think the western side of the lake would be good.” He stood to open another book.

Fingon grinned, leaning in to snatch the paper away and dancing back from the table. “You aren’t that bad an artist, Russ! I want to see what you drew! Is it your mountain? Or us?” He waggled his eyebrows slightly, backing to the far side of another table and clutching the paper to his chest.

Maedhros rolled his eyes. “It’s what happens when I can’t keep my eyes off you,” he said, following from a distance, waiting to pounce when Fingon looked down.

Fingon held the paper out, still keeping his eyes on Maedhros, and stepping backwards he looked down. And proceeded to back into a wall. “Russ…?” He looked up at Maedhros. This… this wasn’t him. He could barely hold his own in the forge, particularly when compared with his cousins. And he certainly was never crowned or looking like… that…

Now Maedhros moved in, pressing Fingon against the wall and pulling gently at the paper. “I intend to draw something that is actually you: the ainur-esque creature you apparently inspire. I think I was imagining how you looked making this ring for me,” he said, his voice low, as he spun the ring on his finger. “The crown and the wings are ornamentation—” he touched Fingon’s face, “invisible to all but me.”

Fingon shook his head slowly. “That’s… I don’t look like that, Russ.” He laughed slightly. “I can barely hold my own in the forge, though I’m trying to improve there…” He smiled, however, as his eyes were drawn to his ring on Maedhros’ finger, and he caught his cousins’ hand in his, bringing it to his lips. “I’m glad you are pleased with me. And I will… I will try to live up to how you envision me.”

“You do already,” Maedhros said, “my likeness of you is what is lacking.” He pressed Fingon back against the wall, suddenly, his hand flat against Fingon’s chest, thumb against throat, and he kissed him, hungrily, demandingly. “Now. I think you owe me from this morning,” he said, settling his arms on either side of Fingon against the wall, trapping him. “Show me,” he rasped. “I want to see how you pleasure yourself. Right here, right now.”

Fingon shivered at the idea of doing that so suddenly, and in the middle of their grandfather’s library. There would be no locked doors this time. And the idea of Maedhros watching him, studying him… it should fill him with embarrassment, and yet… and yet he remembered wearing clothing that was little more than a transparent veil, and the way Maedhros’ breath had caught, how his speech had stuttered and his eyes had seemed to be forever tracing across Fingon’s skin. And with such thoughts in the forefront of his mind Fingon flushed with desire rather than shyness as he unlaced his tunic, shrugging out of it. Part of him longed to do this right here—inches from Maedhros while another part was quickly assessing the sturdiness of the closest table. He could kneel on it safely, he thought, and… perform for his lover. “I—do you want to be here, or… you can sit if you want?” He spoke quietly, but his voice seemed to carry in the stillness of the library.

“I want to be right here,” Maedhros growled, getting something out of just standing there over him. “I want to smell you,” he whispered, bending down to breathe Fingon’s scent out of his hair, and he licked his lips.

Fingon shivered, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up at Maedhros’ tone. He opened his mouth for a moment, just breathing. “As my prince commands.” His voice was the barest whisper, and at first he stood still, just watching Maedhros eyes darken and breathing him in. He was… comfortably trapped like this, his half-naked form hidden between the wall and Maedhros’ tall frame.

Fingon finally allowed himself to touch, but he avoided his sex at first. He ran a hand along his collarbone, and then lower, pinching his nipples to hardness, and sliding across his chest. He thought of two nights ago- of being on his knees for Maedhros, and his lover holding him, using his mouth. “Russ,” he whispered, voice trembling. And he thought of Russ doing this for him- of letting him see, watch this morning as Maedhros closed his eyes and… Fingon had broken out in a light sweat just watching Maedhros, and the mere remembrance of that had the muscles in his thighs trembling as he leaned heavily against the wall. “Maitimo,” he groaned, hands moving down to trace across his stomach, and then, after unlacing his breeches with careful fingers and shoving them to mid-leg, his hands dropped to the V of his lower abdomen, stroking along the inside of his thighs. He felt himself moving slightly, thrusting against cruel, empty air.

“Mm, good,” Maedhros said, eyes glazing over as he felt and smelt more than saw Fingon take his time with himself. He rested the drawing of Fingon (he now realized that of course the drawing was nearly nude) on the table behind him without looking or moving away. “Show me what you wish my hands would do with you, what I will do with you if you are a very good boy,” he whispered, breath stirring Fingon’s hair where he loomed over him.

Finally he slid a hand around himself, just holding, and watching as Maedhros’ breathing quickened. “Russ, ohmy—Russs.” Slowly, carefully he stroked. And, eyes locked on Maedhros, his breathing quickened. Fingon arched his back, head pressed against the wall, hand moving faster. His hips thrust lightly and he spread his legs wider as he balanced himself, stepping out of one pant leg. He began to bring his other hand to wrap around himself as well, then paused, holding out his dry hand towards Maedhros. “Please,” he begged, “please help me?” He looked at his lover with dark eyes, pupils blown wide. “Help me get them wet them wet,” he requested as his hips jerked lightly. “Or do you want me to do that, too?”

Maedhros wanted to. Ohh, he wanted to. But, “No,” he said, his voice sounding like he had actual rocks in his throat. “I’m not going to touch you. Only my voice will touch you, Findekáno, and my breath, and if you are very good, I might kiss you. I want to watch you lick your own hand and—Finno. I want you to wait. Wait to finish until I say. Can you do that?”

Fingon nodded shakily, lathing his hand for a moment and then shoving his fingers into his mouth as he locked eyes with Maedhros. He wet them quickly, thoroughly, and then held his other hand still, focusing on centering himself. Then he met Maedhros’ eyes, and dropped his hand behind him, raising one leg and pressing his foot against the wall. He worked his fingers into himself with a loud gasp, his jaw dropping at the feeling. “Russ,” he whimpered, hips twitching. He began stroking himself again, unable to hold back, to hold still. His eyes, however, remained locked on his lover as he worked his fingers deeper, panting and whimpering and shaking with need.

Maedhros hummed in surprise and delight, and grinning, decided to take pity on Fingon. He bent his knees slightly and patted one. “Put your leg up here. I’d rather you not fall over—and I imagine I’ll get a better view from this angle.” As beautiful as this was, he had to keep himself under control if the wicked plan forming in his mind was going to go as he planned.

Fingon nodded, biting his lip, and brought his leg forward to throw it over Maedhros’ hip. “Please?” he whispered. He could balance better like this, and his hands began to move faster. His breath caught as he focused on Maedhros’ body, watching his muscles tense and relax. He heard his cousin’s breathing catch almost in time with his own. “P-please Russ, may I release?”

Maedhros held Fingon’s leg up around his hip, but, “Not yet,” he whispered, kissing Fingon’s brow. “You’re not even trying,” he grinned wolfishly.

Fingon felt himself already moving too close to the edge. He stilled his hands, breaths stuttering to a stop. When that failed to work he clenched a hand around his base with a whimper. Head hanging down, he fought to breathe as he forced himself back from the edge. His leg trembled in Maedhros’ grasp as a long, needy whine escaped him. “Russ,” he whispered as his body stopped shuddering in denied pleasure. “Russ.”

“Not yet,” Maedhros said again, moving in closer. “Hold yourself, hold still,” he ordered, counting Fingon’s breaths—one, two, three, four, five. “All right. Again, slower. Give me—” he took Fingon’s right hand, still slick with spit, and pinned it over his head. “Now touch yourself as I asked,” he demanded.

“Yes, yes, please, Russ, please.” Fingon tossed his head from side to side against the wall, but he did began moving his hand as Maedhros had commanded, and he did not try to move from his hold. His body trembled at the stimulation, not trusting that it would not be denied again, and he shook from feet to shoulders, grateful for the firm wall and Maedhros’ grasp. “Mmmm.”

When he was able to still himself Fingon left his head tilted down, eyes gazing unfocused at the floor, not daring to look at his lover. This was- this was wonderful. This hurt so good. This was the Russ from midnight who had taken him apart kneeling on the floor and called him to come to him like a hound, who had laid himself over his back and thrust between his thighs and—Fingon needed. “Russ,” he gasped hoarsely. “Please, what—what doyouwant? Please?”

“Hold,” Maedhros barked, and watched with satisfaction as Fingon’s hand stilled and tightened around his sex. “I want you, like this, as desperate and needing as you make me. All the time. And—” he crouched down, pulling Fingon’s trousers up where they had pooled about his ankles, and slid his leg back in. “And in exchange for teasing me…” A smile played at his lips as he pulled Fingon’s hand away and tied the laces back up on his trousers, but he eyed Fingon carefully to make sure this game was acceptable. “I will tease you in return.”

Fingon opened and closed his mouth, at first unable to form words. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his hands into fists, breathing deeply. He could try thinking about other things, but at the moment everything—every crafting lessons at the forge—led back to Maedhros. He nodded, slumping against the wall, and waiting for Maedhros’ next command.

He palmed at Fingon’s backside as he adjusted his cousin’s trousers, humming with satisfaction, kissing Fingon’s sweaty temple. “Now give me your hands,” he said, and wet one of the cloth napkins with water to wash them clean. Once they were, he kissed them. "I love you very much, Findekáno,“ he said, and pulling on Fingon’s hands, guided him back to his desk, sitting him down and leaning over him. "Sketch me one more picture. Draw me. Draw a mountain. Draw something. And then we will…finish. Also: hands on the desk,” he added.

Fingon stared at the pencil in his hand as though he had forgotten how to use it. And he stared at the paper, thinking. And then, almost of its own accord, his hand began to move. Maedhros moved back to his seat, continuing to eye Fingon as though concerned he might disobey. Fingon shook his head, and put the thought aside as he fit the perfect image to the paper. He sketched a vague outline, as his hands still shook slightly, and then began to sketch faster, reaching for pens of several widths and colors. And as he worked he began to forget the uncomfortable feeling at his waist (again! What did Maedhros have against his trousers?) and focus on his memory and his sketch, though the two did little to curb the undercurrent of desire that ran through him.

Maedhros waited, watching, though he took a quick moment to lock the door to the library, because as much as Fingon seemed to like the idea, he certainly did not want to be discovered like this. But, when he returned, Fingon still seemed intent on drawing, though he shifted uncomfortably a few times, and from here Maedhros could view with satisfaction the tent in his trousers. “All right?” he checked, his voice soft.

Fingon nodded absently, only half hearing the question. He leaned over the table to grab a pencil that had rolled to the far side, and continued to detail his drawing. He looked at it with a critical eye and determined that something was… lacking. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that what he wished to show could never truly be captured on paper. He shook his head, tracing the edges of the paper carefully before he went back with a darker pen, adding depth to some of the lines and the shadows.

Maedhros huffed. He had rather expected Fingon to draw a stick figure just to be done with it. But Fingon seemed intent. He would let him know when it was time, so he sat down, turning again to the image he had drawn of Fingon, touching up a few smeared edges with a dark pencil.

Fingon traced careful fingers over his parchment, as though he would commit again to memory what was already there. It was still imperfect, but so it would remain. When he looked over Maedhros was once again at work. “Nelyafinwë,” he called softly, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment to him. “Shall I start on another?”

“No,” Maedhros said, head snapping up. “Come here, Finno. Show me.”

Standing slowly, Fingon gave the drawing a final, critical eye, and moved over to Maedhros whose full attention was now on him. Arriving next to him, he slid it onto the table. He had drawn Maedhros, as his lover had first suggested. This drawing would never see daylight, however, and was as far from the sketch of Maedhros in the lake as that sketch had been from the landscapes preceding it.

What Fingon handed Maedhros was the picture from Fingon’s eyes the night before as he had straddled Maedhros and undone him, holding him back from the edge and demanding he give his desires voice. It showed Maedhros, flushed and sweating, hair cascading across the pillow and their wrinkled sheets. His muscles were clenched, his face was desperate, and at the bottom of the page Fingon’s hand wrapped smoothly around him, beginning to draw him towards completion a second time.

Maedhros flushed as he looked at the drawing. It was embarrassing as much as arousing, and it stole his breath. “Ai, Findekáno,” he whispered, smiling down at the image before picking it up, stacking it reverently over his before setting them on the small desk. He took Fingon by the shoulders, then, and pulled him into a kiss, reversing their positions until he could guide Fingon to lie on his back on the table. “I want you here, hold still for me, just one moment,” he said, kissing him once more as he unlaced and tugged his trousers down again. Fingon was still hard, his member an angry red, and it practically sprung free of its bonds. Maedhros licked his lips, but held back. “All right, my love?” he asked, brushing dark hair back from his lover’s face.

Fingon nodded, pressing his lips together has he was released. He lay back, head tilted up to watch Maedhros. He leaned into the hand that brushed against him, desperate for the contact perhaps even more than for physical gratification. “Russ,” he murmured. “’s perfect.” He blinked up at him. “Want to feel you. Please. ‘ve been good, right?”

“You have been so good, my love,” Maedhros agreed, leaning down to kiss him once again. “Now I want to watch you finish—I want you to touch yourself—I want to see you spend yourself and call my name, and then I will touch you. Can you do this for me, my Findekáno? My love?” His hand was in Fingon’s hair, gentling him.

Fingon nodded, bringing his palm to his mouth and licking it slowly. He brought his hand to his arousal, stroking gently and biting his lip even at that. “I—I feel—it feels—it’s so much, Russ.” He let out a soft noise, and his hips began to move a little. He was already close- had been for some time, and release hovered around a nearby corner. “Russ,” he whimpered, stroking hard. “Russandol. My Russ.” He closed his eyes for a minute, focusing on the feeling of Maedhros’ hand in his hair, then turned to meet his gaze. “Please, Russ, Please. May I?” His movements were growing firmer and faster, and he winced slightly at the thought of having to stay himself again. “Please?”

It was all Maedhros could do not to reach out and touch also, but he gripped the edge of the table instead and leaned in closer. “Yes, Finno,” he said. “Yes, my good Findekáno, show me. I want to see you filthy with your own seed—” he pulled Fingon’s shirt up, exposing his chest, his pebbled nipples, his harsh breaths. “Come for me.”

Fingon moaned at his words, and at the slightest touch of Maedhros’ hands on him. “Russ, thank you.” His breath caught as his hand moved faster, and he found himself focused on Maedhros who watched him in turn. “Russ,” he said, and his hips began to move off the table. “RussRuss—Russandol!” Eyes locked with Maedhros, he spent over his hand and stomach. His body twitched and shivered, and as he lay panting, the wood of the table began to feel cool and hard and less comfortable against him. “Russ,” he choked out, not sure if they were still playing this game. His hands twitched towards Maedhros before he checked them and he desperately wanted his lover’s arms around him, preferably holding him tightly.

It was better than his own climax, watching Fingon come undone like that, back arching, neck bared, Maedhros’ name on his lips—and then to see him reach out, so sweetly, so needy, it touched his very fëa. “Darling, yes,” he said, taking Fingon’s hand, kissing his palm, and then licking it. “Just stay here, hold still just a moment longer for me, let me clean you—” He was brushing his hair back again, his other hand holding Fingon’s as he bent down to lick up the mess. He did not enjoy it as long as he had planned, instead working quickly so he could re-dress Fingon, pulling him into his clothes before pulling him into his arms. “I’m here, Findekáno, I have you,” he whispered, tucking Fingon under his chin, gathering him close. “Thank you.”

Fingon wrapped himself around Maedhros, wanting—needing the closeness. Since they had arrived, they had not gone so long without touching—there would be hands on shoulders, or a foot brushing against a leg. To be told not to reach out to Maedhros was… discomforting. At the same time, bringing himself to fulfillment for his lover’s pleasure and capturing his focus so entirely was something Fingon would happily do again, especially with Maedhros growling directions at him. He tucked himself closer to his lover, arms squeezing around him. “Love you,” he whispered. “Did you enjoy that? It was quite cruel, you know.” He said the last with a smile, however, and leaned up for a kiss.

Maedhros huffed, kissing Fingon deeply, lovingly. “I did,” he said with a smile when the kiss broke. “Except for not allowing myself to touch you. Know that it was as much a torture for me as for you.” He kissed Fingon again, all over his face, in quick succession, pulled Fingon closer, held him tighter. “But you are very beautiful when you are desperate, when you have given yourself to me—you are beautiful all the time.” Lifting Fingon, he stepped back from the table and moved to a soft chair, setting Fingon on his lap and never taking his arms from around him. “I shall have to think of other cruel tasks to give you that are not quite so cruel to me…” he said with a grin, and returned to brushing Fingon’s hair with his fingers.

Fingon nuzzled his head into the crook of Maedhros’ neck, breathing him in and clinging to him with arms and legs. “Right now, I’d just like you to hold me.” He slowly relaxed against Maedhros, desiring never to leave his lover’s lap or arms, and could have easily and contentedly fallen asleep there.

When their strength had returned, and their maps were finished, Maedhros began tidying the area. “I think we have enough sketches to get us started, and we have our map for the afternoon. Shall we go and pack ourselves a lunch and go exploring?” he asked, holding out his hand to Fingon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments? Critiques? Has an awful typo or grammatical error slipped through? Please let us know.
> 
> And keep an eye out for the next story in our Maedhros and Fingon series (hopefully coming coming tomorrow evening!)...
> 
> Next time when the boys get caught doing something they shouldn't, things will be much more heated. You can decide who the situation is worse for-- the young lovers, or the parent who gets an unexpected (and very much unwanted!) eyeful.


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